


The Season Underwater

by andtheheir



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Swimming, Anal Sex, Background Eponine/Combeferre, Background Jehan/Montparnasse, Diving, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Partying, Pining, Protests, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Swim Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andtheheir/pseuds/andtheheir
Summary: Grantaire tries not to be too distracted by Enjolras’ butterfly. He’s seen it more times over the past three years than he’s seen his own parents, but he is only a man, and an artist at that. Enjolras’ butterfly is one of those rare things in life that leaves him at a loss, something he wants to watch and mimic, though he has no idea where he would even begin to capture it on canvas.(Or a college swim team AU.)





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, we can all blame @sarahxsmile for this. i told her i wanted to write something for les mis, she suggested a swim team AU, and here we are.
> 
> this monster will be five chapters long and my goal is to post them biweekly. as a small disclaimer, i collected all of my memories from my time on the high school swim team and applied them to a college setting - so here's to hoping that college swimming isn't too different from my experiences! i also tried to make this enjoyable/accessible to people who didn't sacrifice years of their life to this damn sport, so please feel free to let me know if anything comes off as confusing, and i'll do my best to remedy it in chapters to come.
> 
> wow, i can't believe i'm finally posting this. it turned out to be horribly long (i literally have five sizeable notebooks of it), but i listened to a lot of lorde and had a ton of fun while writing it. so i hope you enjoy!

Grantaire wakes on Saturday morning (to the ungodly noise of his alarm clock - so dreadful that if the dead were to show up at his door one day to complain, he wouldn’t be surprised) and considers a few things. 

First is the awful taste in his mouth, reminiscent of wine and laughter and a dreamless sleep without the buffer of toothpaste; he regrets falling into bed last night with red lips and the firm belief that the bathroom was too far away to bother. 

Second comes the inky blackness of his room, cut only by the red gaze of his clock. There is no light peering in between his opaque curtains; the world outside is as lethargic and heavy as Grantaire’s world inside, which means that the 5:01 on his clock could not possibly mean 5:01 PM. 

Third, and last, is the familiar measurement of staying in bed versus the hollow guilt and Enjolras’ piercing glare that would later come with it. Not many people can really make Grantaire do anything, not even himself, but Enjolras’ disappointment in him always finds the fastest way beneath his skin and sits compellingly in his bones. He thinks he’s felt bonafide sicknesses that were less ruining.

On top of that, Enjolras is officially captain this year. The jury is still out on whether or not that will affect the magnitude of Enjolras’ despondency towards Grantaire, but Enjolras’ new title might give it more weight, more influence. Grantaire could earn himself the epithet of The Captain’s Disappointment before the season really even starts.

(Perfect.)

And so, with a loud, protesting groan to the empty room (if Grantaire complains when he wakes feeling like the grounds at the bottom of a coffee pot, and no one is around to hear it, does he even make a sound?), he surfaces from his bed sheets. The air in his bedroom continues to ring long after he’s smacked his alarm clock; it’s a confusing moment when he realizes that it’s actually music, strumming softly from the wireless speakers he left on from last night. 

He dresses in the dark, finding his most accessible pair of sweatpants strewn over his desk chair, and one of the few remaining clean shirts in his laundry basket. He pauses as he pulls it over his head, his nose pressed to its soft cotton. He breathes it in, allows himself a moment to appreciate the lavender and linen of Eponine’s favorite dryer sheets; after today, everything he owns will, once more, smell like chlorine.

Grantaire then slips into the bright hallway and loathes himself from a few hours ago: that inconsiderate dumbass who had not bothered to turn off the lights in the apartment before he locked himself in his bedroom. He always hates the overhead lights - they’re imposing and oddly clinical - but they’re especially insulting in the young 5 o’clock hour, after the solace of his colorless bedroom. He squints and a headache swells.

He nearly trips over the upturned corner of the runner lining the narrow floor (discretely “borrowed” from Eponine’s parents). His nose is stuffy in the post-drinking morning, but even he can tell that their apartment smells stale - chips left overnight in plastic bowls, crumbs from pizza rolls lining the counter, cookies in their split-open aluminum packaging. He drops his gym bag by the front door and passes through the living room on his way to the bathroom, doing his best to avoid the throw pillows (literally thrown last night) and disposable shot glasses scattered at his feet. He kicks a ping-pong ball out of the bathroom doorway.

Eponine stands at the bathroom counter. She already has her toothbrush in her mouth and her long, dark hair pulled up. In one hand, she holds a half-eaten candy bar and there is an abnormally deep flush that sits high on her cheeks, but it’s her only tell of what happened last night. She doesn’t acknowledge Grantaire as he joins her at the sink, instead staring herself down in the mirror like she’s silently trying to convince herself of something. Her loose t-shirt, scooping lazy on her collarbones and showing the faded straps of her swimsuit beneath, smells like beer.

Grantaire’s eyes are still narrowed, red and sleep-ridden and hating the light, and he doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror.

“Do you think Enjolras will be able to tell that we had a party last night? Despite his warning?” God, Grantaire’s voice sounds as horrible as his breath smells. He sticks his toothbrush into his mouth and touches the stubble lining his chin.

“If he talked to Courf, he already knows,” Eponine says with a mouthful of toothpaste. She’s right - Courfeyrac can never keep a good party a secret for long. “I’d say prepare yourself for an abnormally hard first practice.”

Grantaire groans and turns to pluck his swimsuit from the hook behind the door. He finds his beanie in the shower and sticks it on his curling hair, choosing not to dwell on the fact that he remembers less of the night than he’d thought.

They open the windows before they leave, letting in the indigo morning. It billows beneath the curtains and chills the air, freshening it immediately with the lingering scent of its morning dew. Grantaire closes his eyes and breathes it in deep, letting it revive himself as well. He often forgets how much he likes early mornings because he lives in late nights.

 

Enjolras does know about the party. The skin beneath his eyes is dusky but his gaze is still sharp, critical, as he enters the men’s locker room, goggles hanging loose around his neck. The sickly lighting makes his hair look more yellow than blond and his swim cap is tucked halfway into the pocket of his red warm-up jacket. His feet are bare on the clammy tile and his toenails are flaked with red polish. 

He positions himself near the front of the room, centered between the two rows of benches and wordlessly steals every gaze, every lingering bit of exhaustion that keeps the noise of the locker room to a quiet rustle. Grantaire finishes kicking his gym bag into a suitable shape for the locker and blindly closes the door, quiet as Enjolras concentrates on him.

Grantaire has the unshakable feeling that it’s been too long since they’ve seen each other, that they’ve missed milestone moments in each others’ summers, that this Enjolras may look similar to the Enjolras he remembers from last year’s swim season, but there’s something about him that’s entirely new. He’s sure the sentiment isn’t mutual.

(He does wonder what Enjolras sees when he stares at Grantaire. He probably doesn’t want to know.)

“Welcome to another year,” Enjolras says, his voice softened from sleep, or lack thereof. He clears his throat. “I’m glad to see that most of you returned, and, as your new captain - ”

Courfeyrac, hidden somewhere down the line of open lockers and the towels that hang over their doors, lets out a whoop. Enjolras smiles in the corners of his mouth as he waits for the following hoots to subside. He finally breaks eye contact with Grantaire and Grantaire draws in a slow, deep breath.

“As your new captain, I pledge to learn from both our triumphs and our failures from years past. Combeferre, co-captain extraordinaire, Joly, continuing manager extraordinaire, Cosette, diving captain extraordinaire, and I have already extensively discussed several methods for working with everyone’s unique strengths. We will be meeting with you individually for follow-up this week.”

Grantaire glances up at the clock hanging above the mirror: 6:32.

When he looks back at Enjolras, Enjolras is staring at him again. Grantaire yawns wide and Enjolras’ jaw tenses.

“Our warm-up for today is on the board,” Enjolras says. “After land exercises, we’re diving right in. This may be the first practice of the season, but we don’t have a moment to waste. JV will take lanes one through three, Varsity lanes four through seven. The girls are on eight through fifteen. Jehan, Marius: Cosette has your diving line up ready.”

Then, with a bit of humor and his gaze still fixed on Grantaire, Enjolras concludes: “I won’t go easy on you. I hope you all got enough rest last night.”

 

Grantaire first took an interest in backstroke for lazy (and entirely misguided) reasons, but it turned out that he happens to have a knack for it.

He joined his high school’s swim team in his third year because his parents had deemed him to be too inactive. He only knew about swimming through Eponine, who was on the girl’s team - and even then, she only talked about the persistence of the smell of chlorine (“A fucking parasite, I think tapeworms are less resilient”), and about the miracle of a thing called ‘taper’. He spent the first half of his season swimming in the shallow lanes with the freshmen, until their captain took pity and moved him into one of the top JV lanes.

He swam last in the lane, was lapped in their longer swims, but didn’t mind it. Among two breaststrokers, a butterflier, and a freestyler, Grantaire decided their lane needed a backstroker, and, fuck, he would not be himself if he didn’t choose the stroke that let him lay down while swimming. And he didn’t have to hold his breath - it was one of his easiest decisions.

He learned very quickly that the backstroke is nothing like laying down.

And after a summer of no practice, Grantaire is learning this lesson all over again, in his junior year of college. An hour in and they start their specialty practice - Grantaire, in lane three, leads the way. 

Last night sits heavy and sluggish in the front of his head and it’s a chore to keep his back properly arched so that he doesn’t sink. His arms already ache when he has to turn over for the flip turns; he considers not holding his breath, and just letting the water take him as it will. Too many times his goggles leak and his chest heaves when he breathes - it’s miserable and all he wants is a drink and a bed.

But, in the end, he’s never had problems with backstroke that others do. He can blindly swim in a straight line and not run into the lane lines. With his ears underwater and the ceiling in his gaze, he finds an odd quiet, punctuated only by his own breathing and movements. And so, when he’s not sloppily hungover, yeah, he’s good at it.

He finishes the repertoire on the board first and lets himself drift in his last few yards, floating like a corpse towards the wall. When he touches down and peels the goggles from his eyes, he finds a waiting Enjolras, crouched behind the lane’s starting block and beside their water bottles of varying colors. 

Crouched, shirtless, adorning stray beads of water across his hips and biceps - a white towel is draped around his neck and his goggles and swim cap are gone. His blond hair is still wet enough to adhere to his scalp, though some rebellious curls have started to stray away from his neck. He’s haloed with the lights high above them and his blue eyes are as sharp as ever, fixed upon Grantaire.

“I don’t know how much you saw, but I promise I didn’t float the whole way,” Grantaire says and takes a drink from his water bottle; his heart is only pounding because of the work out and that’s it.

“I know, I saw you,” Enjolras says. “You’re finished, right?”

Grantaire nods as he drinks.

“Then I’d like to talk to you.”

Bossuet finishes beside him, ending his breaststroke with a slap to the pool wall. “Jesus,” he breathes, through the water cascading down his face as he surfaces. “Maybe those car bombs last night were the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Grantaire stands tense, waiting for Enjolras’ reaction and for Bossuet to remove his goggles and see they aren’t alone. Enjolras doesn’t say anything, though Grantaire feels a lecture brewing in the air. Bossuet merely sighs when he realizes his mistake and takes his water bottle, using it as an excuse to avoid Enjolras’ gaze.

It’s an odd time for him to realize it, but Grantaire is starving.

Grantaire drops his goggles and swim cap onto the pool deck and then hoists himself out of the water. His feet slap wetly on the floor as he follows Enjolras to the manager’s office, water rushing down his legs and arms as he goes. He pushes his hands through the knots of his hair in an attempt to tame it. 

(His heart is still only pounding because of his work out - it is.)

By the time they get to the office (‘office’ to them, faculty seating and miscellaneous equipment storage to everyone else), Grantaire has already armed himself with four counters to any party-related scolding that Enjolras could wield. The door closes behind them smothers the pool’s rhythmic splashing to a quiet hiss. 

The room is windowless, walls decorated with posters about local concerts (stolen from the bulletins around campus) and CPR instruction. Joly sits at the one desk in the room, with his cane propped up against its metal legs and his portable speakers brought from home, thumping with a bass line too quick for 8:03 AM. Joly’s good leg follows along, foot tapping the rhythm on the floor. Grantaire dutifully stays close to the door, the water dripping off of him and collecting in a growing puddle around his feet. He plucks one of the towels hung on the back of the door to wipe himself off.

“I thought you were going to swim today,” he says to Joly as Enjolras lingers near the rack of kick boards, apparently waiting for something to happen.

Joly’s back is to them; he writes something on a paper that Grantaire can’t see. “Nah, I don’t think my leg took too well to the beer pong olympics last night. I’m just Mr. Paperwork Manager today,” he says easily.

Enjolras’ jaw tenses, and Grantaire thinks it might be the goal of the rest of the team to make sure Enjolras knows how irresponsible they all are.

“We’re all a bunch of assholes, aren’t we?” Grantaire says to Enjolras, mostly taunting, though a little apathetic. As he leans over to dry his legs, Enjolras gives him a cool eyebrow.

“I never expected any of you to listen to me and go to bed at a reasonable, sober time,” he says and there it is, the disappointment that makes Grantaire wish he was the puddle on the floor.

“Enj,” Joly says and turns in his spinning chair, wearing last year’s swimming sweatshirt. He’s in his swimsuit as well. “Classes start next week, be reasonable.” He somehow makes this sound encouraging.

“Just don’t expect the practice regimens to be tailored to your hangover,” Enjolras says and before Grantaire can roll his eyes, Enjolras closes the topic. “I didn’t call you in here to scold you. I want to discuss your position on the team.”

(Grantaire’s pounding heart is still only responding to the swimming and the poor shape he’s in.)

Grantaire straightens once he’s acceptably damp and he drapes the towel on the door hook again.

“Is this a demotion to waterboy?” Sometimes, Grantaire doesn’t even know why he says things.

He’s treated to Enjolras’ eyebrow again. “You’d make a terrible waterboy, you can’t even keep yourself hydrated enough to combat a hangover.”

“I prefer building a tolerance.”

“Combeferre and I were reviewing your times from last year,” Enjolras deflects. “You significantly improved your 100 backstroke time by the end of the year - by eight seconds, in fact.”

“It wasn’t because I stopped drinking, I tell you what - ”

“I want you to swim varsity.”

This silences Grantaire. Joly passively listens as he straightens the stapler on his humble desk. The commotion outside the door sounds like static and Grantaire busies himself with looking over the coils of lane lines as he measures the probability that this is a joke. 

It’s incredibly low, and a prank this cruel seems far below Enjolras.

But there’s no way it can’t be a hoax. Grantaire thrives in JV, with its low-pressure stakes and overall lack of meaning in the grand scheme of a meet. He likes swimming when he knows his score won’t really count for anything - it won’t help or harm them. He swims for himself and not for points so that he can better justify practicing only his minimum requirement and drinking down a bottle of wine the night of a pasta party.

“We’re low on backstrokers, anyway,” Enjolras continues when Grantaire doesn’t respond. “Bahorel is good, but he’d like to focus on his freestyle more. As it stands, we pull people who are much better at other events into the 100 back just because we have to. It’s not efficient.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says blankly because his head is still reeling.

“Moving you up to varsity will, of course, mean you have to work harder,” Enjolras says, critically now, and adjusts the towel around his neck. “I will expect you to make use of our free swim times. And you may have to adjust your lifestyle to better suit the season.”

“Does Courf get this lecture, too? I know you know that he was at that party.”

“I’m serious, Grantaire,” Enjolras says and Grantaire realizes then how little Enjolras says his name. It sticks in his head, the punctuated syllables, broken down into a thing that Grantaire barely recognizes, but kind of adores. Like Enjolras is the only one who really knows how to pronounce his name. “If you were to actually work at this, you could be really good.”

Grantaire wonders what it’s like to be Enjolras, who defines work as breaking records and bettering himself every day. He wonders what it’s like to think of getting out of bed as a routine instead of a sometimes-impossible chore.

But, in the end, only one person can really make Grantaire do anything.

“Fine,” he agrees quietly.

 

Grantaire has always known that Enjolras stays later at the pool than anyone, even Joly, but he has never really known what he does with that extra time. He has spent three years assuming and content with the idea that Enjolras works himself to exhaustion when there’s no one else around, swimming laps in his perfect butterfly form. He is captain, after all, and has essentially been captain since Grantaire has known him - he swims the pool like it was made for him, working himself through its water and redefining the art in the sport. 

Enjolras is a year ahead of Grantaire, and so he thinks nothing of Enjolras’ habit to stay late - it had already been established before he joined the team and no one else pays it any mind.

He finds out what Enjolras really does a couple days later, when he forgets his water bottle at the head of his new lane, lane five. It’s after their first Monday practice and he realizes what he’s done once he’s showered and the locker room has mostly cleared. He leaves his gym bag on the bench as he quickly tip-toes out to the pool deck, trying not to slip on the post-practice puddles while also being mindful of the fact that Eponine is probably waiting for him.

The pool is more humid than any other part of the building; Grantaire exits the showers and feels like he’s stepping into a mouth, the air hot and sticking to him like breath, now that he’s wearing more than a swimsuit. The tile is contrastingly cold under foot and he spots his water bottle, lime green and alone by the starting block.

From the corner of his eye, the diving board moves.

Enjolras stands on top of the tallest one, ten meters up, caught silent in the noon sunlight spilling in from the highest line of windows. His shoulders are straight, everything of him confident and poised as he bounces slightly, just enough to move the board beneath him in small, lazy motions. He looks like a king up there, the edges of him gleaming as he stares down at his blue kingdom. 

If he’s noticed Grantaire, he doesn’t indicate it, and Grantaire feels like he’s witnessing something not meant for him, something private and personal. He should just take his water bottle and go, never to speak of this like the rest of the team.

But he can’t shake the feeling that, if he stays, he’ll see something spectacular.

So, as Enjolras allows it, Grantaire stays close to the wall, keeping himself discrete beside the empty lane line crank. He crosses his arms and watches Enjolras barely bounce for a good minute, up and down, up and down, easy. His heartbeat picks up the longer this goes on, the anticipation spiking inside him, and he starts to wonder if Enjolras is doing this on purpose, keeping him in bated breaths - 

Until Enjolras finally jumps.

He keeps his arms stiff at his sides, his legs strictly together, and toes pointed so that he enters the water with barely a splash: a perfect pencil.

In the stillness that follows, Grantaire thinks he’s missed something.

Enjolras surfaces with a toss of his head, flipping his hair back and away from his face. He breaks through the water and somehow looks the smallest that Grantaire has ever seen him, vulnerable in the vast diving pool, like he’s thinking of sinking in it.

“Do you need me for something?” he asks, voice echoing over the tile walls and filling any voids that Grantaire thinks he saw in his demeanor. Enjolras won’t face him and Grantaire is stuck staring at the top notch of his spine, the shine of the lights across it.

“No,” Grantaire says quietly. “I just forgot my water bottle.” He finally retracts himself from the wall and goes to crouch beside his lane block, hooking his index finger in the cap of his bottle. “You know, I’m sure Cosette or Marius or Jehan would be happy to teach you something other than a pencil dive.”

He doesn’t like the silence that follows. It’s the lull that proceeds the sinking regret of not only saying the wrong thing, but the worst thing - though Grantaire doesn’t understand how it could be. 

Finally, when Enjolras speaks, his voice is level, though far away, “I know how to do something other than a pencil dive.”

He goes underwater, bubbles taking his place on the surface of the pool. He mosaics beneath the water, fractures into shapes of pale skin and blond hair, all disjointed as he moves towards the ladder. 

Grantaire takes it as a dismissal and leaves before he comes up.

 

Classes start two weeks into swim practice and on pretty much the worst day ever; it’s raining (normally a good thing, when Grantaire’s plans for the day range from his bed to the refrigerator in the kitchen), he has a headache which is probably the opposite of a hangover since he has only had one glass of wine over the past week, and the entire apartment smells like burnt cheese because Montparnasse is over and can’t make an omelet no matter how hard he tries.

As Grantaire stands in the kitchen and knocks back a couple of ibuprofen tablets with a cup of coffee, Eponine and Montparnasse huddle around Eponine’s laptop and search for a way to make an omelet in the microwave.

“R,” Eponine sighs just as he brings his messenger bag to the door and finishes stuffing his sketchbook into it, “your class is only an hour, right? Can you bring us some breakfast when you come home? We’re out of everything except eggs.”

“Only if I can bring your travel mug to class,” Grantaire says. From over the top of the laptop, Montparnasse watches him quietly, eyes as clear and gray as the young daylight, and, even after all these years, Grantaire is still unsure of how to feel about him. The wide collar of his black shirt is skewed over the dip of his collarbone and his dark hair is tousled more to one side, in the way that usually indicates that he slept over.

“Fine,” Eponine says.

Because he remembers his mug full of black coffee on his way out, Grantaire forgets his umbrella, but at least he has his priorities in line. Anyway, his jacket has a hood and his hair could use the rain - he nurses his coffee as he sets off to the English building. 

The smell of rain clears his head; in the thick of swim season, he forgets what fresh water is like, forgets the way rain shimmers in the morning and falls without chemicals, puddles around the soles of his sneakers where it sits cloudy and chlorine-free. He walks slowly, content with the patter of the rain on his shoulders as he eyes the architecture unique to the campus - it’s pillar-lined doors and brick siding and engraved trim. The stone statue outside of the humanities building looks like it’s weeping.

He weaves between umbrellas and backpacks and portfolios, students and professors alike, all looking as if the summer ended too soon. It’s calming, in a way, and reminds Grantaire of why he walks to all of his classes, even when his thighs and shoulders ache from practice. These walks, these in-betweens and excuses to be mindless, are breaks in his day. Were he not to take them, he’d probably spend more time napping - at least five hours, instead of his usual two.

So, maybe this day isn’t so terrible after all.

Shakespeare at 9:30 on a Monday morning had seemed like a reasonable thing to Grantaire when he had signed up for classes and had, as usual, mourned all of the evening classes he couldn’t take due to his practice schedule. But as he enters the English building, he’s not so sure; the students seem reasonable enough, as sleepy and quiet as himself on a Monday, but, as a graphic design major, he feels out of place. 

The English building feels like an institution compared to the airy and aesthetically lopsided art building; the hallways are narrow and straight and composed of dark brick, windowless and lined with bulletin boards covered in papers. They trigger a weird sense of claustrophobia, and Grantaire hopes he didn’t choose the wrong elective. He hopes that his inherent enjoyment of Shakespeare will be enough to carry him through a semester in this depressing building.

He isn’t the only person taking this class as an elective; he steps into the classroom that looks too much like every classroom at his high school, and finds Combeferre sitting by the window. Most of the desks are empty, though Grantaire is only four minutes early - even the TA is nowhere to be seen. Grantaire weaves between them and takes the one behind Combeferre, pushing his hood down as he slings his bag from his shoulder. He assumes it’s Combeferre’s umbrella that’s open and propped up against the windowsill.

“One second,” Combeferre says quietly, ducked over a pad of graph paper and, from his quick glance, he sees a list of familiar names going down the left side, all from the swim team. Also on Combeferre’s desk sits a used copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and an aluminum coffee mug, the lines of a moth printed on the side.

Grantaire waits patiently, watching as the raindrops turn to rivers on the windowpane. Another couple of students file into the room, all quiet, all holding cups of coffee (most of which are paper and generic in the way that’s specific to the cheap cafes in the campus buildings). 

Finally, Combeferre turns around and catches Grantaire mid-yawn. He smiles sympathetically and the morning reflects off his glasses, his dark skin blanched in the window light.

“I feel that,” he says. “I’ve already had French this morning.”

“No one should be awake for two different sevens in the same day,” Grantaire says firmly, though his past two weeks have not adhered to this rule. They talk quietly, though the room is silent otherwise, so others are no doubt listening. “What’s an engineer doing in a Shakespeare course?”

“Trying something new and filling my credit load,” Combeferre says and sips from his coffee. “I only have a few more biomed courses and I’ve already filled my French and humanities minors.”

Grantaire has wild hopes of being as on top of life as Combeferre in his senior year. “Of course you have,” he says lightly.

“And I don’t suppose Shakespeare is required for the graphic design track,” Combeferre continues curiously.

“Nope. I’m here for the satire, iambic pentameter, and Horatio’s obvious crush on Hamlet.”

Combeferre smiles a bit wider at that. “What else do you have before this evening’s practice?”

A quiet buzz of conversation has started up around them; most of the seats have been taken and the makeshift aisles between desks are plagued with drying umbrellas. “Picking up breakfast for Eponine,” Grantaire says. “And then a typography workshop and French film. Tuesday and Thursday are figure drawing, web design, and painting II.”

“French film with Professor Manhattan?” Combeferre asks and cocks an eyebrow in a way that makes Grantaire nervous, that makes him suspect he’s missing something.

“I don’t know? Discussions are at three, and viewings are every Friday morning.”

Then, worse than the eyebrow, Combeferre smiles his secret smile, right in the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Grantaire asks suspiciously.

“It’s a good class,” Combeferre says easily and casts his gaze out the window. “You’ll like it. I’m putting together our roster for our first meet next week.”

“Already?”

“Yep. We won’t throw you into the varsity backstroke right away, but Enj does at least want you in a relay. Think you’ll find time to stay for the free swim a couple of evenings this week?”

Grantaire isn’t sure he has a choice. “Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “But not Friday. Nothing is stopping the annual class-start rager.”

The TA stalks in, two minutes late, his plaid bow tie peeking out from beneath his soaked bomber jacket. His leather briefcase, worn soft on its edges, is beaded with raindrops, and his red hair hangs wet in his eyes as he anxiously makes his way to the chalkboard, looking as sad as a wet dog.

“Not even Enj would miss his last annual rager,” Combeferre says before he turns back in his desk, and class begins.

Throughout its entirety, Grantaire tries not to be distracted by the memories of Enjolras at parties - never drinking alcohol, but somehow more approachable in a crowd, with his crescent smile and bright eyes and long fingers that fit so nicely around a soda can.

 

The rain still coaxes him into bed that afternoon. He brings Eponine and Montparnasse scones from the cafe in the English building and then takes a nap until typography. He hears the rain in his dreams.

He doesn’t eat until 2:30, when he finally realizes how hungry he is. He stops by the corner bakery on his way to class and catches Feuilly at the end of his shift, and risks being a couple minutes late to class so that he can talk with him over a bagel. Feuilly shows him the enamel pins attached to his apron, all of which are designed after doodles that Grantaire has drawn on napkins.

Grantaire steps into his film class and immediately sees the reason behind Combeferre’s smile. He is indeed two minutes late to class, so nearly all of the desks are full, except for one - the one just to the right of Enjolras’.

Grantaire subtly toasts the professor with his coffee cup, which only steels the disapproving look on his elderly face. All eyes are on him, so surely he’s developed an abrupt bout of social anxiety - there is no other explanation for the way his heartbeat rockets.

Enjolras watches him during his quiet trek through the desks and over school bags, even when the professor has begun to speak again. Grantaire really wishes he wouldn’t, but at least the expression on his face is more curious than anything; he must recognize the cup from Feuilly’s bakery.

Grantaire settles without further ado, tucking his bag beneath his seat without even bothering to pull from it a notebook or pencil or anything, not even for show. He chances a glance at Enjolras who is still watching him, pencil caught idly between his tapered fingers and a brand new notebook open and empty and front of him and -

Christ, his bangs are bobby-pinned away from his face.

Grantaire gives him a small nod of acknowledgment and Enjolras does the same, which prompts him to turn his attention back towards the professor.

Grantaire stares at his coffee cup and wonders if he can convince Feuilly to add a shot of whisky to it next time.

 

Seeing Enjolras outside of the pool house has always been strange. He is no less fantastic sitting in a lopsided chair made of cracked plastic and rusting metal than he is in crystalline water, racing through it like he was born to do nothing else. Grantaire first thought he was only attracted to Enjolras because of his incredible competence, because of his ability to speak like a lion roars, or the control he has over water, like it forgets its place as one of nature’s core elements when he’s around. But the glimpses Grantaire has caught of him elsewhere quickly told him otherwise.

Enjolras still glows under the sickly fluorescents of a classroom. He wears their pale light as easily as he wears his maroon zip-up or heathered scoop necks or stitched scarves. He sits with his legs stretched beneath the desk, crossed at the ankle, and far more slumped than Grantaire would expect. The exhaustion bruised around his lashes does nothing to dull the gleam in his blue eyes as he listens to the professor, and it’s no wonder that people romanticize sleep deprivation.

Seeing Enjolras outside of the pool or locker room or team bus is not only strange, but also devastating. Always devastating.

God help Grantaire - he doesn’t hear a thing the professor says.

(He wants to go home and paint.)

“I had no idea you liked French film.”

Enjolras is the first to speak once class is dismissed.

“I don’t,” Grantaire says because he thinks it’s what Enjolras expects - or, maybe not, judging by the troubled look on his face. “I always loved movie days in high school. Thought I’d go back to my roots.”

“And why French?” Enjolras asks, standing over his book bag that he’s propped up in his desk chair. He stops as he stuffs his notebook back into it in favor of watching Grantaire carefully.

Grantaire simply shrugs and drags his bag out from underneath his desk by the strap. He catches sight of what could possibly be a mess inside of Enjolras’ backpack: a pile of crumpled papers and a metal water bottle. “I’ve always been a romantic,” he says.

Enjolras’ brow furrows, a look not at all unfamiliar to Grantaire, but one he’s only seen at parties when he slips up and lets Enjolras see how many drinks he’s had. “There’s only one romance on the film list,” he says. “There’s so much more to France’s history than - ”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, firmly enough to stop him before he gets too far, but with that lazy laugh that he falls back onto when things get too serious for his liking, “I get it. And even if I didn’t, I’m about to learn a semester’s worth of shit on the topic. Save your lecturing tone for practice, yeah?”

Then, immediately when Enjolras’ look darkens with indignation, “And what’s your excuse? Your poli sci courses leading you towards becoming the ambassador of France?”

Enjolras doesn’t respond until they’re out of the classroom, stepping into the washed out daylight that again looks to be contemplating a shower. Grantaire thinks he might have somehow offended Enjolras to the point of silence, but Enjolras’ expression isn’t put off. If anything, it looks a little lost; the hood of his red sweatshirt sticks inside out from the collar of his canvas jacket, and Grantaire stuffs his free hand into his pocket to resist the urge to fix it. He sips his cold coffee with the other.

“My mother is French,” Enjolras responds quietly, like he wants to say much more on the subject. “And I’ve always been interested in film as a medium - its versatility leaves room for layers upon layers of meaning and interpretation.”

Grantaire’s stomach twists; he feels both guilty and stupid for his half-assed answer, but honestly his truth isn’t much more impressive - he had seen Jean Renoir in the course description and needed a few more credits to reach the minimum requirement. 

“If you learn the art of subliminal messaging and then suddenly host swim team movie nights, I’m not coming,” Grantaire says.

That gets a quiet scoff from Enjolras. “I’m offended that you think I’d jeopardize the free will of our team,” he says.

The silence that follows reminds Grantaire of how little he actually knows about Enjolras, how they have very few things to really talk about. Admittedly, he probably knows an embarrassing amount of Enjolras’ little details in proportion with how little they’ve talked, but he can’t exactly bring up the way Enjolras fiddles with his goggles strap whenever he looks at the scoreboard, or the habitual dried mango that he eats during the diving portion of meets. And, as much as he wants to, he can’t ask Enjolras to elaborate on his after-practice pencil dives.

“Will you stay for free swim tonight?” Enjolras asks. The air sticks to them, bloated beneath the rain clouds. “I heard Combeferre talked to you this morning. I’d like the new relay team to work on times and handoffs.”

“Are varsity handoffs different from JV handoffs?”

“No,” Enjolras says flatly. “But I know you know they’re worth practicing all the same. Everyone does them differently and milliseconds count in a meet.”

He does know this. Grantaire shrugs and feels a raindrop fall onto his nose. He pulls his hood up. “Sure,” he says.

Enjolras is clearly not satisfied with this answer. “Grantaire, you’ve been adapting really well to your new lane,” he says in a tone that immediately makes Grantaire want to check out of this conversation. Its scolding nature leaves a sour taste in his mouth and he watches the interstates of tree branches above them. “But I hope you don’t think your work stops there. If you don’t put as much effort into this as everyone else - ”

“Got it, captain,” Grantaire interrupts. “All work, no play, makes R a successful boy.”

“That’s not what I said,” Enjolras counters firmly. “Do you plan on doing free swim any other nights this week?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Just not Friday. Combeferre said that not even you would miss your last annual rager.”

“Free swim ends at 8:30, your party doesn’t start until 9:00,” Enjolras says impatiently. “And I’m not cancelling practice the following Saturday.”

“Of course not.”

“In fact, I think it may be when our first limbo is due.”

Grantaire’s stomach sinks. “Fuck, seriously?” he asks. “Come on, no one will stay - ”

He looks sideways and finds a small grin in the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. He’s speechless with the prospect of Enjolras teasing him, but as quickly as the smile comes, it goes.

“I’d like to see you at free swim three nights this week,” Enjolras says. “Courfeyrac is used to exchanging with Bahorel. He’ll need to practice with you.”

“Right,” Grantaire murmurs. “Who all is in this medley?”

“In order: myself, you, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre.”

“Of course.” Grantaire’s voice is small, wishing itself and himself as far away as the rain clouds. He feels another raindrop. “And you trust me enough to put me on a relay with varsity’s heavy hitters because…?”

Enjolras’ mouth presses into a firm line, and they stop behind the crowd gathered at a crosswalk. “The relays are not based on times, they’re based on who works well together. Combeferre put a lot of thought into them.”

“And what about me made him think that I, having only swam JV, could keep up with you?”

Enjolras turns towards him then, his backpack bumping against someone else’s, and the crowd shifts around them to adjust. His eyes are a blue that mocks the pallid sky and shine with a clarity that distracts from the redness around them; Grantaire thinks raindrops could catch in his long eyelashes. There isn’t disappointment in his expression, but something more like impatience or determination - that look that Grantaire knows he would follow into a fire. His throat feels dry.

“What about you thinks you can’t?” Enjolras asks intently. “The only thing that could stop you would be your own carelessness.”

“Too bad ‘careless’ is at the top of my list of character traits, right next to lazy.”

“Bullshit,” Enjolras says, impatience prevailing. The light turns and they move into the crosswalk, stuck in the spaces allotted for them. A professor’s briefcase brushes against Grantaire’s thigh until they step to the opposite curb and the point at which he and Enjolras need to part.

“I’ve seen you swim,” Enjolras says dismissively and, without another glance, turns away. “See you at practice.”

He leaves Grantaire just as it starts raining like it means it. Grantaire stares after him and his blond hair and steady shoulders, until he’s lost to the crowd.

 

That week, Grantaire stays for free swim Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, and only has one more surprise regarding unexpected classmates; Montparnasse is in his figure drawing course. 

Everything goes better than expected: Montparnasse regards him quietly during the warm-up drawing sessions, and Courfeyrac quickly adapts to their exchange in the medley relay. Bahorel stays behind to offer tips to Grantaire when he deems them necessary (“Try taking one less stroke after the flags”, “arch less in your start”, “tuck your legs at the very end of your run - you’re taller and Courf might dive right on top of you”), but for the most part, Bahorel is there for moral support and his own freestyle. He and Joly sit at the edge of the pool a few lanes down, their feet dipped in the water and their conversation jumping between PR campaigns, fundraisers, and whatever song is playing over the pool’s intercom.

Grantaire tries not to be too distracted by Enjolras’ butterfly. He’s seen it more times over the past three years than he’s seen his own parents, but he is only a man, and an artist at that. Enjolras’ butterfly is one of those rare things in life that leaves him at a loss, something he wants to watch and mimic, though he has no idea where he would even begin to capture it on canvas. Poetry in motion, a stream of conscious, effortless, inspiring - he moves with the water the way lungs work with air. And he comes up immediately after his palms smack the wall, wet cheeks flushed high, red lips parted as he arches to watch Grantaire dive over him. Grantaire spends his fifty meters dwelling whenever he leaps a second too late, having been too distracted by Enjolras to dive on time. Afterwards, he finds Enjolras with his goggles torn off and standing beside the starting block, clapping encouragingly as Grantaire lifts himself over the gutter. His chest is still pink, though he’s usually caught his breath.

(Grantaire’s sure everyone except probably Enjolras himself catches him staring, notices that his gaze lingers for a little too long, but they all have the good grace to not say anything.)

Enjolras is a different captain when it’s only the six of them at the pool - he’s less of a leader, more of a teammate. He spends less time pacing the pool deck and less time plucking at his goggles when he thinks. On Thursday, when Courfeyrac and Grantaire begin to discuss at length the drinks needed for Friday’s party, Enjolras merely lingers nearby, thumbing through a list of expenses and funds that Joly has set up for him. And he smiles slyly when Combeferre gives him a look as Grantaire confirms that there will, indeed, be no limbo in Saturday morning’s practice.

(God help Grantaire if Enjolras decides to wield that smile more regularly.)

And then, during their last runthrough of the night, Enjolras offers his hand to Grantaire to help him out of the pool. Grantaire’s heart rate takes a little longer to return to normal after that.

 

Pregaming his own party is really the dumbest idea, but he and Eponine have turned it into such a tradition that they can’t bring themselves to stop after three years. The apartment isn’t exactly clean by 9:00, but it’s more empty. All of Grantaire’s canvases have migrated to his bedroom, all of the art has been taken off of the living room walls, and most of the furniture now adheres to the corners of the room. Eponine’s windowsill garden now sits on her dresser and all the glassware and silverware hides in the kitchen cabinets while plasticware adorns the counters and coffee table. It’s not that they don’t trust the swimming and diving team, of course. It’s more that everyone (excluding Enjolras) has five too many drinks and then accidents happen. 

It’s also that Courfeyrac and Bahorel know too many people, and before Grantaire can keep up, their twenty-person team has become a fifty-plus-person crowd.

Sitting on the living room rug (the one that has seen too many spills to be precious), Eponine and Grantaire toast their Irish car bombs and knock them back in a synchronized motion.

And then they do another.

By the time Marius, Jehan, and Cosette arrive (Eponine and Grantaire have discussed the odd punctuality of the diving team, and can’t quite trace it to the source), Grantaire is petting the rug, liking the soft buzz it sends up his fingertips.

After the first people arrive, others follow like a flood. Grantaire passes most of the time with Jehan, discussing costuming in Shakespeare reduxes and their similarities to the attire of specific professors. He does look up every time the door opens. He’s annoyingly disappointed when someone other than Enjolras walks through it. Eponine eventually puts him in charge of greeting people loudly from across the room and pointing them towards the drinks. 

Courfeyrac knows someone (of course he does) who has a reasonably-sized trampoline (of course he does), and so that ends up in the living room around 10:30. Joly has set the tone for the party with a mix of electronic beats and heavy basses, and the apartment glows in the dim lights hung around the edges of the ceiling. In a brief lull of activity, Montparnasse, from the corner of the room and with a glass (Grantaire will blame Eponine if it sees the end of the night in pieces) of wine in his ringed fingers, loudly suggests an evolution of beer pong with the trampoline. 

When Bahorel and Musichetta leap onto the trampoline with solo cups in their hands, he smirks and turns more towards Babet, who leans against the wall beside him, a sucker stick in his mouth. They look entirely content with the idea that they are responsible for any injuries that follow.

And this, at exactly 10:45, is what Enjolras and Combeferre walk into.

In the tail end of persuading Bossuet that he, the unluckiest person Grantaire has ever known, should not play ‘Beer Pongoline’, Grantaire looks up, ready to give his dismissive directions to the refrigerator, but he stops short. He is the only thing that does; the commotion runs wild around him, the floor thumping with the bass the trampoline, voices so loud they hover clouds in the room.

And Enjolras, standing in the dusky lighting, lingering near the doorway and with his curly hair tied back and his bangs still hanging damp and close to his brow - he’s hardly different from the Enjolras that Grantaire saw several times earlier today. 

Except that he is; in this crowded room, under the romantic and inherently suggestive cover of nightfall, he is different.

“Caps,” Grantaire manages, projecting above the noise of the party, “soda and beer in the fridge.”

If Combeferre and Enjolras hear Grantaire, they don’t acknowledge it. They watch the sport unfolding before them with mild amusement, the same hint of a complacent smile on their mouths.

“No broken legs,” is the only thing Enjolras says, orders, before he goes to the refrigerator.

The party carries on and takes Grantaire’s least favorite turn around midnight, when Montparnasse and Babet decide, in the middle of their own Beer Pongoline match, that they’re already bored of their own creation. Babet serves his ball into Montparnasse’s beer cup before both cups are gone, and Babet’s hands are on Montparnasse’s hips and Montparnasse’s are in Babet’s dark hair, their mouths crashing together. The trampoline dipping low beneath them as Montparnasse slots his thigh between Babet's. 

The suggestive electricity in the room usually starts with something much softer - with Marius thinking nothing of Courfeyrac’s longing glance towards him and casting an identical one to Cosette, or Jehan lingering close to Montparnasse, or Joly sitting in Musichetta’s lap, who sits in Bossuet’s. It leads to people ducking behind furniture or onto the fire escape, and, worse, to Grantaire’s realization that alcohol is incessantly warm and tingles in his fingertips whenever he catches Enjolras’ gaze across the room.

The only saving grace of this time at any party is that Enjolras never seems to partake in it. At most, he yawns and then leans himself against Combeferre and fits his face against the side of Combeferre’s neck.

Today, the romantic hours start when Grantaire has started on a bottle of wine and finds himself stuck beside Marius. They watch as the crowd coaxes Montparnasse and Babet from the trampoline so the games can continue; across the room, Jehan and Courfeyrac do a simultaneous shot. If Grantaire is honest, he wants a turn on the trampoline, especially with the way his head is kind of warm and lagging now, giving tails to everything he sees when he moves his eyes too quickly. 

And especially with the enduring thought of his hands in Enjolras’ hair, working his blond curls free from their tie.

“Do you think we could get Enjolras to get up there?” he asks, leaning in close to Marius, who actually dresses strikingly like Montparnasse - black button-down and fitted black jeans, though lacking Montparnasse’s leather jacket.

(Grantaire is really stuck on clothes tonight.)

Marius laughs into his drink, but barely gives Grantaire his divided attention. His gaze fixes somewhere to the left and Grantaire doesn’t need to look to know who is over there. His pupils are blown and black in the dim apartment, lips stained blue like the inside of his cup. “No,” he says. “But if we did, he’d probably be unbeatable.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him do a mean pencil dive.” It makes sense in Grantaire’s head - a diving board bounces, a trampoline bounces. Good at one, good at the other.

Marius finally looks at him, bangs pushed back from his forehead due to the number of times he’s pushed his fingers through them. “You know Enjolras was originally a diver, don’t you?” he asks, curious. Behind him, Jehan and Courfeyrac take to the trampoline, Jehan expertly using one hand to twist his hair back into a bun.

“No?” Grantaire says, eyes wide, but that makes sense, as much sense as any natural law in the universe. He looks across the room at Enjolras, who happens to be looking at him too, before he averts his eyes back to a gesticulating Feuilly.

(Grantaire reminds himself that it means nothing that Enjolras had been watching him after the party’s romantic turn. He reminds himself that Enjolras’ head is full of thoughts and that he probably just lost himself in them.)

“Yeah, in high school,” Marius says. “I competed against him a few times. But now he’s stuck firmly in swimming, and has been ever since freshman year.”

“Why?”

“He won’t say. Just says that this is for the better, and he has a scholarship now.”

Grantaire retreats to the memory of Enjolras standing on the high diving board, looking entirely like it and everything below was his. Maybe it’s the lens of the liquor and beer and wine, but Grantaire distinctly remembers the sunlight adorning him in royal garments - a crown to match his hair and a robe that glows.

“Excuse me!” Courfeyrac exclaims from his place on the trampoline, beer held high in one hand. Beside him, Jehan bounces in small, excited motions. His voice carries across their heads and summons attention immediately, even from Montparnasse and Babet - though Babet then pulls them out into the hallway in a fluid motion.

Grantaire blinks himself back into his body and finishes the rest of his cup of wine. His fingers itch to paint, or to touch Enjolras’ cheeks like Joly is touching Bossuet’s. He’s not sure which.

“Excuse me, yes, thank you,” Courfeyrac continues and pushes his dark hair back from his face. His jean jacket adorns some of Feuilly’s pins. “All y’all who are not on the swim team can ignore this, but do so quietly, thank you.” He clears his throat and takes a swig of his beer; Enjolras is watching him with a quiet, endeared smile.

“Anyway, for some of us,” Courfeyrac continues, bouncing opposite Jehan, “this is our last annual kick-off rager.”

“I know!” he shouts over the chorus of ‘boo’s that erupts. “I know! Next year, you’ll have this fantastic party without me, Enj, Ferre, Joly, Musichetta, Marius, and Cosette. I know, boo! Boo! I know! But here me out - ” He holds his hands out, as a performer would to silence a crowd, his beer cup tilting with the motion. 

Grantaire reaches back and turns down the music because it feels appropriate, because Courfeyrac is always neon and always gets the attention of a crowded room if he wants it. He would have spotlights gazing upon him if there were any.

Finally, when he continues, he’s beaming, all teeth. “What we have done here is incredible. And will always be incredible. And even if some of us are leaving, we have some fucking fantastic people to carry on this incredible thing. So to us.” He lifts his cup high above his head and the entire room follows. Grantaire’s chest swells affectionately with the confirmation that Enjolras is the only one drinking from a soda can. “Let’s not make tonight sad. Let’s kill this year and have no regrets!”

The crowd cheers, only to follow it up with a quiet and collective drink lead by Courfeyrac. Grantaire’s cup is empty and in a shitty but abrupt moment of clarity, he realizes that it’s difficult to imagine himself on a swim team without Enjolras. He breathes in the citrus and currant undertones sticking in violet to the sides of his cup and doesn’t know when this happened, when Enjolras became a cornerstone in his pathetic-as-it-is swimming career; he’d swam for years without him. So surely he could swim another.

Except that he’s not so sure.

He tips his head back down and turns up the bass lines again; the romance is back in bloom. Marius has abandoned their conversation and started one of silent glances with Cosette. Bossuet’s nose is pressed to the back of Joly’s neck while he talks close with Musichetta. Jehan’s gaze wanders repeatedly towards the door. Grantaire catches both Enjolras and Combeferre staring at him, and he tries not to look stupidly drunk as he blinks. 

Combeferre gives him a sympathetic smile and graciously looks away, but Enjolras continues to watch him, measure him in all of the ways with which Grantaire is familiar. Except this time, Grantaire doesn’t have anything behind which to hide. He can’t leap into a pool or busy himself with a gym bag or pretend he’s taking notes about the significance of color in an otherwise black and white film. There is only him and his hot and restless intoxication and Enjolras can see it all.

When Grantaire leaps into the empty space beside Courfeyrac a moment later, it’s to save himself and hope that what Enjolras sees in him isn’t as disappointing as it feels.


	2. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire expects himself to feel worse, having just argued with Enjolras and shown his cynical hand for what it is, but what he’s taken away from their conversation is not Enjolras’ words or disapproval. 
> 
> Instead, because he had managed to rile Enjolras past disappointed and to angry, Grantaire is able to focus on having caught Enjolras’ attention at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't lie, montparnasse probably turned out to be my favorite part of this fic. also, shout out to my own experiences with swim practice limbo that have left me bitter enough to rant about it through fic!

This September passes much more sorely and with much less painting than any of Grantaire’s other Septembers. 

The annual kick-off rager ends with most sleeping on the floor or piled onto the furniture in the living room. Then, after they all spend agonizing hours beneath the pool’s imposing lights the following morning, they all silently agree to tone down the parties. The beer stains on the living room’s tall ceiling require the ladder from Feuilly’s cafe to clean them, and between Grantaire and Eponine and sometimes Montparnasse, it takes a good five days for them to return the state and smell of their apartment to normal. Succeeding team gatherings of any size (pasta parties excluded) consist of nothing more exciting than laptops and movies and large bags of candy.

Grantaire really begins to feel the effects of his free swims going into the second week. He’s used to the lingering ache in his thighs when he climbs the stairs to his apartment and the tension that surfaces in his calves when he’s still for too long, but this strain between his shoulder blades is new. He now winces whenever he pulls his messenger bag from his shoulder.

“Joly or I could help you with that,” Combeferre says in their Shakespeare class, the morning before their meet. He himself also looks a little worse for wear (well, as ‘worse for wear’ as Combeferre could ever look), eyes dull behind his round-lens glasses. 

“Please,” Grantaire says as he drops into his chair, though nothing comes of it.

Their first meet is a home meet, and the stands are about half full, which is more than usual. Their new swimsuits, which arrived yesterday evening, are a vibrant red and uncomfortably tight, stiff and reminiscent of the beginnings of past seasons. 

The other team sports navy suits and arrogant smiles that falter only when they make eye contact with either Enjolras or Combeferre. Enjolras is in fine form: a purposeful stride when he walks the pool deck like it’s his, a projecting voice, and a quiet yet bold confidence that could convince a man that two plus two no longer equals four.

In the end, they lose, but only by four points and only after a few smaller victories; Grantaire and Courfeyrac execute a flawless exchange in their relay, Joly breaks his 100 M butterfly record, both Cosette and Jehan perform a dive so flawlessly it prompts deafening cheers in the pool hall, and Enjolras beats out the other team’s captain in his 100 M butterfly by milliseconds. 

(Grantaire loses his voice during that last one, when he’s huddled among his teammates at the end of Enjolras’ lane, caught in the grasp of the competition and throwing his voice into screams so loud they hurt. He loves Enjolras in nearly every setting, but this one is always special, when the smallest measurements have fit themselves between him and his opponent and he _knows_ it, when the inferno of his spirit is so palpable that it radiates even from his place underwater. He performs at his peak here, when the stakes are their highest and victory demands perfection; in and out of the water, as easy, as unstoppable, as a tide working its way upshore.)

And, tempting as it may be, Grantaire hasn’t let himself stay late after any practice, hasn’t fabricated an excuse to watch Enjolras jump from the high dive. Whenever he feels the urge, he carves out a little time from his sleep schedule to draw Enjolras on a new canvas, sunborne and suspended above the anxious pool.

During the day, he keeps it among the rest of his sketched-upon canvases, which sit facing and leaned against the wall. None of them are finished enough to earn a place on his easel - they’d just stare at him with the intimacy of a reflection in a mirror, the constant reminder of all of the parts of him that should be there but aren’t: talent, motivation, perseverance.

One Wednesday, he enters French film to find Enjolras entirely immersed in whatever he’s furiously writing on his desk. He’s ducked low to it, over it, as if to protect it from the other uninterested parties in the room, all of whom are thumbing through their phones or the criticism reading that’s due today. His bangs are pinned back again, curling upwards, and his jaw is tense, teeth ground together.

Grantaire sets one of two paper coffee cups on Enjolras’ desks, and then defensively holds a hand up when he earns Enjolras’ steel gaze. “Feuilly sends his regards,” he says. “I had no idea you liked the sweetest drinks on the menu. I had pegged you for a black coffee guy.”

Enjolras softens a bit at that. He sets his pen down and deflates, leaning back in his chair as he exhales slowly. Grantaire catches a glimpse of his notebook and the illegible script on its lines.

“Thank you,” Enjolras concedes quietly and lifts the cup. “And I’ll drink black coffee, but sometimes I need to indulge.”

“No judgment, I’m a slut for matcha frappuccinos.” Grantaire takes care as he slings his bag from his shoulder and then drops into the seat beside Enjolras. Still, yesterday’s extra several hundred meters of backstroke sit heavy in his thighs and he winces. “But on Wednesdays, we drink americanos. And vigorously take notes?”

Enjolras nurses his coffee cup and briefly regards the notebook on his desk. “I’m writing to the dean,” he says, voice thin. “You’ve heard about the tuition raises, right?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says blandly and leans back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the desk. He sets his heels on the bottom bar of the empty seat in front of him. “They’ve taken every legal precaution to make sure I know that I’ll owe them even more money when I get out of here.”

“It’s not right, it shouldn’t be legal,” Enjolras says with a firm resolve. “We as students, and they as an institution, both initially agreed upon a price for our enrollment. They’re breaking a contract when they abruptly raise the price for current students without just cause - ”

“Does this affect you?” Grantaire asks, watching Enjolras sideways and keeping his coffee cup close to his lips. “I thought you had scholarships. And parents who could cover the rest.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes a bit and shifts to the edge of his chair, turning to better engage with Grantaire, who braces himself with another sip of coffee and his free hand tucked into the pocket of his canvas jacket. “I do,” Enjolras says seriously. “I am one of the few fortunate ones who will not be burdened by a mountain of student loan debt, but I can’t just sit back and let it happen to the entire rest of my generation. Those of us with such privilege need to do our part to help - ”

“And you think a letter, a handwritten letter on college-ruled paper, is going to curb the greed of the rich ass school board?” Grantaire asks dryly. He likes the way Enjolras leans across the aisle between them, his eyes shining with that clarity again - the look of a man who knows what he wants and how to get it, even with his disobedient bangs pinned back from his set brow.

“The letter-writing is Combeferre’s idea, our first attempt at civility,” Enjolras says. “He will type them up and deliver them directly, professionally; how will the dean know there’s a problem if no one tells him? And I know we’re not the only ones, but the higher the number, the more powerful we are.”

Grantaire scoffs and glances towards the chalkboard. “Yeah, how would he know people hate being charged out of their dicks for something as basic as education?”

“If nothing improves, then we’ll take it to their steps,” Enjolras says seriously. “Make ourselves impossible to ignore - do not patronize me, Grantaire, you have no right if your plan is to sit by and do nothing.”

The professor chooses this fine moment to make his entrance, balancing too many text books under his arms and boasting a gold brooch on the lapel of his tweed jacket. Grantaire turns forward, prepared to absorb and combat the comments of his peers to help him understand the reading he didn’t do. Enjolras goes back to his notebook, though less vehemently, and continues his letter under the disguise of taking notes.

Grantaire expects himself to feel worse, having just argued with Enjolras and shown his cynical hand for what it is, but what he’s taken away from their conversation is not Enjolras’ words or disapproval. 

Instead, because he had managed to rile Enjolras past disappointed and to angry, Grantaire is able to focus on having caught Enjolras’ attention at all.

 

Their first away meet is close enough that Joly deems it plausible for them all to carpool and save the money that would normally go towards using the bus.

“If we don’t end up _needing_ the funds in the end, I’ll bring in a mountain of donuts for the last day of taper,” he says.

“Please consult me before you do that,” Enjolras says wryly.

“Or indulge in our post-season banquet,” Joly revises.

It’s no small feat to coordinate the transportation of over twenty athletes to a school an hour away. Grantaire ends up riding shotgun in Eponine’s car, with Jehan and Cosette in the backseat, and their pile of gym bags in the trunk. It’s a sunny Thursday, the air golden in the late afternoon, and so they ride with the sunroof open and sing to the pop-punk CDs in Eponine’s car, their mouths blue with Gatorade.

Grantaire doesn’t find out until he’s roaming the pool deck (it’s much nicer than their own, and Grantaire suspects that it’s heated) that this meet will not be as easy as he had expected. In addition to their relay, he’s been moved from his JV heat of the 100 M backstroke and placed in their only entry for the varsity 500 M freestyle. Eponine grimaces for him and touches his back soothingly.

Grantaire parts from the crowd gathered around the line-up, his worst parts unearthing inside of him. He feels the dread, vulnerability, the certainty of failure as he finds Enjolras in the empty locker room, changing. While the open locker door blocks most of Enjolras from view, Grantaire feels the reality of confronting Enjolras while naked in his quick heartbeat. But Enjolras’ bare feet and clothes draped neatly over the bench have nothing on the mess silently, violently, spreading inside of him. “Cap,” Grantaire demands. “The 500? Really? What was it you said about me working on backstroke?”

Enjolras straightens enough to eye Grantaire from over the top of the door, the curls of his hair hanging close to his eyelashes. He’s clearly annoyed, he has been ever since their discussion on the tuition hike. Grantaire is used to pissing off Enjolras - but there was a break for three weeks where he had both Enjolras’ attention and his good graces and, damn it, that was kind of nice, too.

“Don’t call me that, you sound condescending. The 500 is good for stamina,” Enjolras says bluntly. “I need Combeferre and Bahorel working on their sprints, and so you seemed like a good candidate.”

“Sure, I love swimming twenty lengths of the pool in front of an audience, just like anyone else,” Grantaire says quickly, in a tone that makes Enjolras roll his eyes. “But - ”

“It’ll be good for you, Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts, firmer. “It’ll push you. Combeferre and I looked at their times. If you actually work for those twenty laps, you’ll keep up. You will, I know you will.”

Grantaire would believe him more if he still didn’t sound so irritated, like he’s simply saying the things he thinks a captain should. 

(Or perhaps he wouldn’t.)

“Is this supposed to be some weird roundabout lesson?” Grantaire asks, the locker room hot in his warm-up jacket. “Like - I clearly didn’t believe in anything enough to really work for it, so there’s this, you throwing me into the ocean without a life raft to somehow show I should actually do something?”

“What?” Enjolras snaps.

“Is this because of what I said about tuition? Because - ”

“No,” Enjolras counters and grips the edge of the locker, knuckles going white. He turns entirely towards Grantaire now, and the shadows in his collarbones are dark. “No, for god’s sake, I would never abuse my position of power to retaliate against you in an argument. Your only other event is the medley relay, which is first; you’ll have plenty of time to rest before the 500. Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I put you there because it will help you? Or is that just what you’re hiding behind because you’re too lazy to do it?”

And there it is, that disappointment dawning behind Enjolras’ crossness. There’s an odd and brief comfort that comes with it amidst Enjolras’ new expectations for him, and Grantaire thinks maybe he had been searching for it, maybe he had been hoping to hear how much of a letdown Enjolras thinks him to be. But it’s gone as quickly as it comes and Grantaire is filled again with the paling sickness, the reality that he is only himself, and that is never good enough.

He laughs. Enjolras sets his jaw. “Why don’t I believe you’re doing what’s best for me? Because I know that you always expect the worst from me, and who am I to disappoint - ”

“Where is this coming from?” Enjolras starts, but Joly enters, the soft tap of his cane on the polished tile announcing his entrance before he says anything. He frowns as he looks between them and Grantaire realizes then that they may have been louder than intended. Joly is dressed, adorning his drop crotch sweatpants and his team t-shirt, meaning he won’t be swimming today.

“R, you’re missing warm-ups,” he says quietly. He runs his free hand back through his dark, shaggy hair. “Enj, you should get in a few laps before we have to do the pre-meet formalities.”

“I know,” Enjolras says quietly, though pointedly.

“I’m leaving,” Grantaire responds shortly and stalks past Joly, out of the locker room. He’s grateful to find that most of their team has taken to the water, swimming their laps in rows and filling the air with the white noise of their splashing. The stands are nearly full, and Grantaire knows that almost none of the audience is theirs - except for Montparnasse, who lounges in the front, fiddling with his phone and wearing a jacket that again makes Grantaire aware of the sticky air just by looking at it.

As Grantaire sheds his jacket and crouches by one of their lanes, adjusting his swim cap and waiting for a gap in the practice line, he catches Jehan’s eye. Jehan gives him a soft and sympathetic smile from his place by the diving board before he goes back to drying himself off.

 

Grantaire, like most of their team, usually uses the meet’s diving intermission to eat a bite, varying from a pack of Oreos to a sandwich, depending on how on top of his life he is that day. 

But he’s not hungry. The fleece lining of his jacket is too stifling as he sits beside Eponine with his knees drawn to his chest and an enduring ability to decline her incessant hints that he should take a bite of her croissant.

And so, he notices two things he wouldn’t have otherwise. The first is that, in the stands, Montparnasse is actually paying attention now, his legs crossed as he leans back in his seat, watching the divers. And, upon further surveillance, Grantaire realizes that he only stops bouncing his leg impatiently when Jehan is up.

The second thing is that, when a diver from a other team neglects to pull herself into a tight enough tuck and comes dangerously close to hitting her ankle on the board, Enjolras stands and goes into the locker room, fingers worrying at the straps of his goggles.

 

Grantaire’s head is entirely wrong for this. He knows it the moment he sets foot on the starting block for his 500 and realizes that he’d been too preoccupied to arrange a lap counter for himself.

But he looks up quickly in his panic only to see Enjolras, standing at the end of his lane and holding the counter card in his hand. Grantaire’s vision tunnels. He’s blind to everything but the severity in Enjolras’ gaze and the large empty spaces on the lap card - lap zero - that remind Grantaire just how far he has to go.

He feels sick.

He’s swimming against two opponents, and his hands tremble as he adjusts his swim cap, then his goggles -

What was it Enjolras had said?

If he actually works at this, he can keep up.

On the mark, he bends over, curls his fingertips around the edge of the block, and sets his left foot in front of his right.

Work.

His heart beats itself against his sternum and he sticks on that word, work. It means something for him that it doesn’t mean for Enjolras. It means cutting off a piece of himself to ignore the dread at just the idea of doing the smallest things, like showering or taking his textbooks out of his bag. 

Enjolras has no idea how much he’s “worked” to attend three free swims a week while also keeping himself Sparknote-level afloat in his courses, no idea how much he’s neglected the things he needs to get through the day just to bring himself to this pedestal that Enjolras has prepared for him -

No idea how much it feels like a hangover now, to realize that he hasn’t been handling as well as he had thought. Hoped.

The horn sounds and Grantaire dives. Molasses limbs and a willpower to match; Grantaire resists the urge to open his mouth and sink to the bottom of the pool.

He doesn’t keep up. Not even when the numbers on the counter turn red as they reach lap seventeen and Enjolras vigorously shakes the card, pumping it up and down under the water as if it will rouse a spontaneous excitement in Grantaire. Not even when he turns his head to the side to draw in the last breath before the flip turn and can hear the cheers of the group surrounding Enjolras. Not even as Grantaire himself wishes that he was better - a better swimmer, a better person, more like the made up Grantaire that Enjolras thinks he could be.

There are few things worse than swimming when he doesn’t want to - it’s claustrophobic and psychological and drowning without actually doing so, without the rest at the end.

Both of his opponents finish ahead of him, both caught up on breath by the time Grantaire surfaces with his own burning lungs.

 

Enjolras claps him on the shoulder as he passes because he has to, because the captain’s job is to do _something_ ; Grantaire has never felt so small.

 

The ride back to campus is much quieter. That night, when the autumn air billows beneath Grantaire’s curtains and smells of yellow leaves and Thirsty Thursday, Eponine makes herself comfortable on Grantaire’s bed with two glasses of wine and her laptop. Grantaire falls asleep halfway through an episode of Parks and Rec, with his head on her shoulder, feeling a lot like a pit.

 

Friday morning comes, even though Grantaire wished it wouldn’t. He’s never sure of how to feel when the world reminds him that it doesn’t share his apocalyptic grief, that even though his own sky has collapsed and his own ground has fissured, there’s at least one other that hasn’t. His bed is empty, Eponine already gone for her early morning sociology lecture, but above the lingering aroma of the red wine that clings to his bed sheets, he smells a hot pot of coffee from the kitchen. It’s the only thing that separates him from his sheets, especially when he remembers that it’s Friday: French film viewing and, above that, Enjolras, right away in the morning.

He stands in the empty kitchen, curling his toes against the peeling linoleum floor and staring his headache into his black coffee; they’re watching Renoir today, the only film he had known on the list. 

But it’s early enough to be dark outside, and yesterday’s demons aren’t yet done with him, and fuck if he can handle any sort of lecture that Enjolras has no doubt spent all night composing. He should probably just go back to bed - lifting his coffee cup is hard enough, and he’s better equipped to instead start the day with Combeferre and Oberon.

But no one can make Grantaire do anything, not even himself.

Dawn is young as he walks to class. He hides from it with his hood up and earbuds in; it didn’t take him long to regret enrolling in a course that requires him to wake before 6:30 every Friday for a movie, but he does like the quiet sidewalks and the patches of dew-wet grass and a dawn that changes color from week to week. 

He forgot his coffee on the kitchen counter (he had plans to bring one of his porcelain mugs to class, since Eponine has her travel mug), which is just insult to injury. He’s hungover without the fun night before, unable to bring himself to stop dragging his feet on the sidewalk and he’s sure he looks pathetic and hilariously dramatic, but he can’t really care. Beneath his jacket, he’s still wearing the t-shirt he wore to bed, but he had somehow managed to change into a clean pair of black jeans.

That is his definition of “work” for the day.

He’s not sure what to expect when he trudges into the classroom at class start, but it’s for sure not what he finds.

He finds one empty desk in the dim room, and it’s the one behind Enjolras - well, “empty” isn’t exactly accurate, since there’s a coffee cup on it. A familiar coffee cup, one that matches the one in front of Enjolras himself, one from Feuilly’s shop. And what appears to be a note.

Enjolras doesn’t acknowledge him as he maneuvers himself around the back of the classroom, and beneath the film projector. He slips into the desk, makes a note of the film’s blue light cast and the sterile glow it gives Enjolras’ usually golden hair. Then he looks at the note and finds, in Enjolras’ nearly-illegible handwriting, ‘Feuilly sends his regards.’

 

Throughout the film, Grantaire has mixed feelings about being addressed only by a note without even a glance, but as he nurses his coffee (a plain latte, exactly what he needs, and he’s not sure if Enjolras or Feuilly knew), he decides it was for the best. 

This way, he gets to sit in Enjolras’ quiet presence, as rare as that is, and it’s a relief to see that Enjolras can sit near him as well, leaned forward and propped on his elbows. The collar of his shirt dips at the nape of his neck and the plaid lining of his jacket is visible from where it’s draped inside out on the back of his chair.

He smells like chlorine.

Between Enjolras’ little details and the exhaustion that sticks to him like his own shadow, Grantaire doesn’t catch much of the film.

Enjolras leaves the classroom first, and Grantaire thinks he can maybe avoid this conversation for a bit longer (or at least postpone it past what’s considered morning). But he finds Enjolras leaning against the opposite wall in the hallway, still sipping from his coffee and positioned in front of a poster that makes it look like sun rays are coming from his blond hair. 

His eyes are worn, unguarded in ways with which Grantaire is unfamiliar, and lined with bruises that indicate he’s even more exhausted than usual. And still, even when his edges are softened and he’s quieted into something more accessible, Grantaire wants to put him on a canvas; he knows that Enjolras is capable of no less now than when he has fire in his eyes.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Grantaire says and lifts his own empty cup as a toast before he tosses it into the recycling bin. Enjolras frowns, probably because Grantaire just mixed paper with plastic and didn’t rinse out the cup beforehand, but Grantaire ignores that. “I forgot mine at home.”

“Feuilly said you usually get a latte or an americano,” Enjolras says. “I had to guess.”

Grantaire merely nods and Enjolras straightens, leading them into the hallway current. The language building isn’t much more stimulating than the English building, though it somehow always smells of a cuisine (today it’s Italian), and tall windows encase the main stairwell, casting hints of daylight down the narrow corridors. It is now properly morning, with its pale and cool sunlight.

“I want to talk to you about last night,” Enjolras says once they’re outside and canopied in September’s aging leaves.

“I figured,” Grantaire says and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He’s grateful when the breeze runs its fingers through his messy hair. “Have to be honest, I don’t want to.”

“Well something went wrong, and as your captain, it’s my job to figure out what.”

There they are again: Enjolras’ obligations. The only reasons he seems to be giving Grantaire such attention.

“Consider yourself relieved of duty, because I won’t hold it against you if we don’t pursue this,” Grantaire says blandly.

“You choked, Grantaire.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And I’m certain it was largely due to what I had said to you beforehand,” Enjolras presses, frustration tightening the edges of his otherwise hushed voice. “Which part went wrong? I won’t apologize for pushing you, I know you could have - ”

“Guess I just didn’t feel like working for it,” Grantaire delivers with a shrug.

“Then you’re off the varsity line-up.”

It’s only then that Grantaire realizes this is the worst thing Enjolras could have said. 

And he doesn’t even know why. But one moment, he’s walking down a habitual sidewalk, fitted in a familiar crowd of familiar backpacks and jackets, routine deja vu. Then the next, the sky looks different, the chilled air bites, and Enjolras’ presence at his side is grating. 

Everything feels wrong, including himself, like he’s been made into a shape different than the one the world has saved for him. Like being on varsity has been apart of his life for longer than four weeks, like it means more to him than he thought.

And now it’s gone.

In one sentence, it’s gone.

“There are people who take their position on the team seriously,” Enjolras continues, as if nothing has changed. “It’s not fair to them if you’re not willing to put in the effort and are rewarded for that. Unless you’re willing to tell me what has really gone wrong, we’ll move you back to JV.”

JV means Grantaire is back to manageable expectations - so why does he feel so much like a cornered animal?

“Just as you’d like, I’m sure,” he says to the quaking leaves overhead. Most of them still cling to their branches, but some jump to the wind.

“What does that mean?” Enjolras says, biting.

“It’s a classic trick,” Grantaire says. “A charity case - you rescue one of the loners, fill him with hope and all the words he needs to hear, you help him so high, until he’s high enough to fall. Then he falls, but hey - you did your part, right? You fulfilled your obligations, well done, you - ”

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s elbow into a firm grip and pulls him from the crowd, off the sidewalk. Grantaire instinctively bats him away, snarling as he does, but the damage is done - they’re in a patch of grass, standing on the season’s last dandelions, and Enjolras’ face is close enough that Grantaire can make out the golden flecks in his blue eyes.

“I wanted to believe in you, Grantaire,” Enjolras hisses, teeth exposed. “No one wanted to believe in you more than I did. Yes, I have a duty as captain, but you also have a duty as a teammate - you’re alone in that lane, but you’re not alone in that pool. There are so many people who depend on you, and for you to just give up - ”

Grantaire laughs, ugly and a product of the knots in his chest and his constricting throat. Enjolras just sets his jaw and narrows his eyes and flares in his anger, as far away from disappointment as Grantaire wants him to be.

“This isn’t a joke - ”

“It kind of is,” Grantaire interrupts. “It’s kind of hilarious. I rearrange my schedule for you, to accommodate the new standards that you set for me - without really giving me a choice, by the way, only for you to decide that I’m not good enough the moment I - ”

“I didn’t decide you’re not good enough, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps. “You did.”

It’s incredible, really. Enjolras’ tongue and his ability to wield it so deftly that it even picks up the morning breeze around them, stirring what’s left of the cotton blooms across their shoes. It’s a Friday and it’s sunny and the sky is washed a faded denim blue - not Grantaire’s favorite weather, but perfect for a self-collecting walk or a lunchtime snack and doodle session in the grass. 

But now there’s nothing inspiring about it. Everything is dying, closing itself off in preparation for winter, and the sky blanches as it stretches towards the horizon - even the sun looks tired, bright but not beaming, not even warm on the shoulders of his jacket.

All because he deemed himself not good enough.

Enjolras is gone; Grantaire isn’t sure when he left, but all that remains of him is inside Grantaire’s aching bones and mudslide head.

 

Seeing Combeferre, even under the pretense of Shakespeare, now seems like an impossible task. Grantaire knows where this new fissure in his life has occurred, but its impact is what really stuns him, like his role on the swim team had grown roots to the rest of him, and now he feels its rot everywhere. He passes the English building on his way back to his apartment and the figures engraved above its door judge him; he still can’t bring himself to pick up his feet as he walks.

Eponine isn’t back from class. Grantaire dumps his keys onto the kitchen counter, picks up his cold coffee, and locks himself in the bathroom with it.

The thing about this rot that he feels is that it’s restless. As much as he wants to go back to sleep, to leave himself for a good few hours, he won’t be able to. So he sets his coffee by the bathroom sink, peels his clothes off of himself, and starts the shower.

He sits on the tile until the water beats his skin pink and his lungs are warm and lethargic and filled with steam. The shower pounds across his scalp, keeping too many thoughts from his head and encouraging his hair into the mirror of a wet mop. 

He sits there, hollow, until he feels too pathetic, and then he stands. His knees crack and ache and his shoulder blades still feel like they’re bruised from his new regimen; at least now, with less practice, he may start to feel less brittle, less elderly.

The mirror is clouded and his phone, half-inside his jeans pocket, holds condensation like a soda glass; he has a text from Combeferre. ‘Nothing but heterosexual L/H/H/D talk today. You picked a good day to skip.’

Grantaire knows that it’s bait: if he responds to this, then Combeferre has him on the hook for the conversation that he really wants to have. He dressed back into his clothes, drapes his towel around his shoulders to catch the beads of water clinging to his hair, and sips from his subpar coffee as he trudges back to his room.

Except, Combeferre doesn’t even wait for Grantaire to take the bait. Grantaire is two minutes into standing uselessly in the center of his room, staring at the sad backs of his canvases when his phone buzzes again.

‘Do you want to move back to JV?’

And again, ‘Negating everything E said, what do you want?’

Grantaire wants a lot of things. He wants to merely find chores in the things that only seem impossible to him - he couldn’t even bring himself to shampoo his hair while he sat on the bathtub floor. 

Better yet, he wants to see challenges as opportunities instead of obstacles. He wants to be the person that everyone else seems to think he can be, he wants Enjolras to look at him differently, he wants to paint more, he wants to be proud of himself.

But all of these things, while they can be related to swimming, are not the answer, are not what Combeferre is looking for.

He turns off his phone. He sets it in the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window, in the company of an old mug of paint water and his small piles of clothes and worn swimsuits. He tips his head back against the wall and erratically drums his fingers over his inseam as he convinces himself that he’ll go to practice, he will, he just needs an afternoon without Enjolras’ quiet sideways glances or Combeferre’s innate ability to fix everything before Grantaire is ready for it to be fixed.

He doesn’t go to practice. Eponine finds him some time when the daylight has bronzed and he’s sketching line patterns in the margins of his typography textbook, floating in the acoustic strings strumming from his laptop. Bless her, she knows when words will work and when they won’t, and she leaves him in his room without a fuss, promising take-out upon her return.

 

Saturday morning’s practice is limbo, and somehow it feels personal.

Grantaire numbs himself through the preceding night with cartons of vegetable lo mein and sketching parts of Enjolras that have nothing to do with his words, like the uneven strings on his sweatshirt or the crumpled-then-flattened papers that stick out of his notebooks. 

Grantaire even takes a shot of pinot noir that morning to help lull himself towards indifference for the next few hours, and Eponine bribes him with an actual breakfast of quiche, so really, Grantaire can admit there are worse mornings.

Until he hauls himself out of the locker room, out of Bahorel’s excited second retelling of how he got the fist-sized bruise on his side in a bar fight with another law student, and onto the pool deck, where he finds the team’s least favorite word on their practice regimen: ‘LIMBO’.

Eponine had warned Grantaire about limbo before he first started swimming. 

It starts with a time limit, and the swimmer has to complete four 100 meter freestyles at said time limit, with only a break between each if they have time to spare within the set limit. And then the time limit drops by five seconds, and the swimmer must complete four more 100s in the new time. And then the time drops another five seconds. And another. And another, and another, until the swimmer wants to die and is physically incapable of meeting the time limit.

A string of people exit the locker room behind Grantaire, each with their own echoing complaint about limbo. And Grantaire can’t shake the feeling that this is his fault; limbo happens twice a year, no matter what, but the timing of this one is too pointed. 

He looks around and finds Enjolras already at the mats in the corner, ready to start his stretches and wearing his practice suit that was red when it was new, but is now a washed-out beige. But before Grantaire can approach him to pick a fight, there’s a touch to his elbow, and Combeferre tells him quietly, “For now, we want you to stay in your varsity lane.”

“Of course you do,” Grantaire says blandly, with far less vigor than if he were talking to Enjolras. “Put me at a faster time for punishment for skipping yesterday, right?”

“No,” Combeferre says mildly, blinking like his contact isn’t quite aligned. “It’s not a punishment. That’s the level at which you swim. We’ll talk later about what happened yesterday.”

Then, once he’s gone, Grantaire receives a quick smack to his ass, and Courfeyrac leans in close to say, “Not your fault. They’ve had this planned from day one. Good to have you back, though.”

Grantaire’s throat feels a little tight as he follows Eponine to the mats.

 

Somewhere after his second round of limbo, after he’s gritted his teeth through each stroke and purposefully smacked his heels against the surface of the water with his flip turns, Grantaire realizes that this is oddly cathartic.

This, wringing himself dry, every breath punishing, every muscle in him waking - this is what his restlessness needed, this is what he had tried to find in the idle beats he’d drummed into his thigh. The second round is behind him and he has five seconds to breathe before they drop to the next tier.

He cleans the fog from his goggles and catches sight of two lanes down, of Enjolras in the deep end, holding onto the pool gutter as he watches the clock. His mouth is red and his chest an exerted pink as he breathes visibly; water drops adorn his jawline like sweat. His hair has begun its rebellion against his swim cap, its curls working their way out from beneath it at the back of his neck and over his ears.

For a moment, in the chaos of the blood rushing in his head and the heat of his overworked muscles, Grantaire can look at Enjolras and forget the past two days. He can forget that and instead remember a longing so dense it fills his chest like the deepest breath.

And then, five seconds is up.

 

“Homecoming is next week,” Eponine says, standing in the center of their living room. Her arms are spread at her sides so that Montparnasse can pin the left seam of the cloth that he’s draped around her.

Grantaire finishes drawing the lines in the fabric where it fits the contours of her collar bones. “So? Homecoming is just an excuse to get drunk and buy clearance, school-licensed attire.”

He’s a little on edge; it’s Sunday and his muscles still feel like they’re at the bend before the break, strings wound too taut when he moves, and when Combeferre said they’d talk “later”, he apparently meant some other specified time that wasn’t immediately after limbo.

“Yeah, exactly,” Eponine says, watching as Montparnasse puts more pins in his mouth, holding their flat ends between his teeth. Grantaire has always been interested in Montparnasse’s weird ability to hold a dangerous amount of pins in his mouth; currently, the most they’ve seen him handle is twenty-seven. (“He’s not human,” Grantaire had insisted. “Either that or it’s a requirement for fashion majors, and he sold his soul for it.”) “We usually do something with the team. And I could get Gavroche’s Christmas present, he needs a new sweatshirt. He got spray paint on his other one.”

Grantaire glances up and finds Eponine watching him intently, the look in her eyes familiar, but certainly not his favorite: she’s leading them into a deeper conversation, whether Grantaire wants to follow her or not. She has decided that the time where words won’t help is up (admittedly, she’s usually right about this). Her dark hair hangs loose around the straps of her tank top and Grantaire has to give her props - after yesterday, he has no idea how she can manage to stand for so long.

Grantaire glances back down at his notebook and adjusts his grip on his pencil so that he can rub the side of the lead across the paper. “All right, let’s drink and buy sweatshirts,” he says evasively. He doesn’t look up when Eponine makes her quiet, dissatisfied noise, but he does continue, “Look, my position on the team is in an obnoxious limbo - excuse the word choice, it’s too soon to joke about the l-word - but I’m still on the team, so we can still go drinking like nothing happened, right? Easy as that, case closed. I don’t care.”

He wishes he felt as nonchalant as he sounds.

“All right,” Eponine says, “that blatant lie aside - ”

“It’s not a lie - ”

“Yeah, but it bothers you, R,” she presses. “I know it does. And you’ve done your moping and now you need to talk because otherwise it’s never going to get better. What was going through your head during that 500?”

“Nothing.”

“R.”

Grantaire sets his jaw and listens for a moment, his pencil hissing against the paper. “I can’t tell you specifically,” he finally mumbles. “I’m not sure if I wasn’t thinking at all, or if I was thinking too much. You know how shitty I am at adapting on the spot. I wasn’t expecting to be thrown into the varsity 500, and just when I had gotten used to the new routine - and was even feeling good about it. He set me up to fail and I thought, fuck, here’s the first time in my life that I won’t disappoint him.”

It sounds petulant as it leaves his mouth. He dumps his notebook and pencil onto the sofa and goes to get a bottle of wine for the refrigerator. He’s in company that has seen him at his worse, so he forgoes the glass and, when he returns to the living room, Montparnasse is lying on his back, pins sticking out of his mouth like odd teeth as he adjusts the bottom hem of the fabric.

“R,” Eponine says carefully, “Enjolras is many things, but conniving isn’t one of them.”

Both Grantaire and Montparnasse snort.

“Wait,” Grantaire says before Eponine can continue, pointing with his free hand to Montparnasse. “You, what does that scoff mean? You barely have to deal with him.”

“They went to high school together,” Eponine says shortly when Montparnasse tips his head back just to give Grantaire a look, so far back Grantaire is afraid he’ll swallow a pin or twenty. “But Enjolras isn’t conniving towards his teammates. He should have told you what he was planning, but I honestly don’t think he’d set you up to fail. As a captain, why would he want you to fail? Do you think he hates you that much?

“Don’t answer that,” she revises quickly. “Is it possible that you set yourself up to fail?”

Eponine has a way of talking to Grantaire - she’s made an art of saying bothersome things in a not-so-bothersome manner, even since before she started her social work courses. Enjolras had said basically the same thing to him and had sent Grantaire into a molasses spiral; Eponine says this and Grantaire hears her, knows he has no choice but to admit that he couldn’t swim that 500 because he had decided so.

“I saw you yesterday. You kept up with Bahorel and Feuilly all through limbo,” she says and turns when Montparnasse taps her calf. “Not one person on that team thinks you belong in JV. Not even Enjolras.

“And besides. If you’re in his relay, you get more time to not-so-subtly gawk at him. Really, R, aren’t you used to his glistening abs by now? It’s been three years.”

“Your speech would have read better without the last part,” Grantaire says blandly. “Combeferre said we’d talk about my position. But I haven’t heard from him, which is bad, because he’s as punctual as the entire diving team.”

“He’s probably waiting for you to talk first,” Eponine points out and Grantaire is so mad at himself for thinking of that sooner, so he takes a long, dizzying drink of wine, the premature time of day be damned. “He knows you’re as stubborn as Enjolras. You won’t talk to him unless you want to.”

Grantaire smacks his newly red lips and digs his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants to check it. “Fine,” he concedes before something dawns on him, something as blinding as light through a hangover. “Fuck, Montparnasse, you went to high school with him?”

He earns a grunt as Montparnasse continues to slide himself across the floor, working his way around Eponine’s feet as he pins the hem.

“You knew he was on the diving team?”

Another grunt. Grantaire squints when the ring on Montparnasse’s middle finger catches the sun that’s spilling through the window, reflects it into his eyes.

“Did you ever watch him? Why did he quit?”

“Yes or no questions,” Eponine chides.

“No, why?” Grantaire asks and then takes another drink when Montparnasse doesn’t immediately cater to him and take the pins out of his mouth.

“Accent,” Montparnasse mumbles around them - or at least that’s what it sounds like. Grantaire feels stupid, but he leans forward, holding the wine bottle between his legs, its neck caught in his index and middle fingers.

“Accent? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Axe dent,” Montparnasse repeats, more pronounced this time. His voice is sharp with irritation.

“Axe - what? What the fuck?”

“Accident,” Eponine helps as Montparnasse gives him another dangerous look.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Accident?” he blinks. “What, like a car accident?”

A mess of syllables comes from between Montparnasse’s teeth and Grantaire bounces his knee as he waits for Eponine’s translation. His heart pounds and he’s not sure why, not sure if it’s with excitement or fear at learning something about Enjolras’ past.

He’s not at all prepared for what she says: “Last meet of senior year, he hit his head on the board during his high dive.”

 

It sticks with Grantaire; he lies in bed that night and tries to imagine it, the hush of a pool, the blue water, as still and patient as the audience, the eyes adhered to Enjolras as he curls his toes against the edge of the board.

Then, the hollow smack of his skull on the plank, as significant as the bang that created the universe - followed by the clumsy splash of his body into water below.

He imagines it so many times it feels like a nightmare, enduring every time he closes his eyes.

He thinks so much of the dive that never happened, of what was left unborn because Enjolras forgot to tuck as he should - that beautiful thing that died at the hands of something so small. He’ll think it’s stupid later, but when his clock reads 3:04 AM, Grantaire is stuck on what Enjolras should be in this life; is he meant to stun from on high, with twists and flips and practiced geometry?

Before he finally catches up with sleep, he thinks that Enjolras might be a tragedy, a king in hiding because he was robbed of his rightful crown.

 

“Did you have a nice weekend?”

Monday morning feels sideways and adjacent to the Monday’s he’s known so well. It can’t be the four hours of sleep - Grantaire has run on much less - so he can only imagine that every weird feeling about it stems from swimming somehow.

Grantaire isn’t proud of the jarred Starbucks frappuccino or the bag of Cheetos that make up his breakfast, but Combeferre barely spares them a glance when he sets them on his desk. The morning outside is gray and contemplating a storm; the lamps outside glow an autumn orange, quieter than the jarring fluorescents above them.

“Neither of us had time to make coffee this morning,” he explains to Combeferre instead of answering. He had barely had time to brush his teeth or dress - he knows the t-shirt he’s wearing is dirty, but it, along with his sweatshirt and jacket and hair, just smell like chlorine, so what does it matter.

“At least you’re eating something,” Combeferre says easily. He turns sideways in his chair to better engage with Grantaire, his moth mug caught in his hands. He sips from it before he offers it to Grantaire.

“No I’m good, thanks,” says Grantaire. “These frappes are my guilty pleasure.”

“It’ll get you going for sure,” Combeferre allows. “I swear, caffeine barely keeps me awake, but the sugar in those keeps me buzzed for hours. In the bad sort of way.”

Grantaire has always suspected that Combeferre ran on coffee (at one point, he had even theorized that Combeferre had an opaque water bottle just so he could drink coffee at practice), but the admission leaves him a little speechless. He’s not sure why. Monday tilts a bit more.

Combeferre adjusts his glasses and tries again. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“Stationary,” Grantaire says, fingering through his bag of Cheetos. He glances at the clock; they’ve got three minutes for this conversation. Most of the desks are still empty. “I still can barely move.”

“You did really well in your lane,” Combeferre offers quietly, staring through Grantaire. “Joly said you went as far as Bahorel and Feuilly.”

“They could have gone longer. I think they stopped for my sake.”

“R, they both specialize in free,” Combeferre reminds him. “It makes sense that they’d be faster. But still, they both ended at five seconds below their last limbo. They didn’t have much left.”

Grantaire shakes his frappuccino and takes a long drink.

“Have you thought anymore about my texts?” Combeferre presses quietly. “I talked with Enjolras. I won’t put words in his mouth, and I believe he intends to talk to you when you’re ready. But we both decided that the choice is yours - there’s still a spot for you in the relay, and in varsity. From now on, we will keep you in backstroke events, since that is what we had all planned in the first place. We should have asked you first about the 500, and will confide in you first if a similar situation ever arises again.” He pauses to sip from his coffee and Grantaire catches sight of crumbs clinging to his shirt collar. It’s weird, but then Combeferre seems more accessible. “Fair?”

Something about Combeferre’s words makes Grantaire’s bag of Cheetos entirely unappetizing, so he folds over the top of the bag and tucks it into his jacket pocket. “Fair,” he concedes quietly.

And because the TA chooses that moment to enter, bringing with him a hoard of students who were lingering in the hallway, Combeferre’s last words come in a text message: ‘Nothing is final until you talk to E. We’ll keep you in the relay on Thursday. Also, Courf is bored of our exclusivity to lowkey parties. He’s planning something on Friday for homecoming.’

Combeferre tucks his phone away before Grantaire can respond. Grantaire spends all class weighing the benefit of asking him about Enjolras’ diving career, but eventually decides that nothing would come of it; Combeferre wouldn’t tell him anything Enjolras didn’t want him to know.

 

Grantaire finally sets one of his canvases on the easel in his bedroom, the one with his loose sketch of Enjolras from below, with the heaviest pencil lines on the diving board and the lightest where the sun rays meet Enjolras’ hair.

 

This year for homecoming, Courfeyrac organizes (with the most help from Bahorel, Bossuet, and Musichetta) what he calls the ‘Inflat-a-party’, and he’s managed to get his entire apartment building on board. 

It’s no surprise because Courfeyrac can make friends with anyone and everyone, from the quiet flute player in 4C to the group of flatbill-wearing stoners in 1E; the only people who don’t like Courfeyrac are people who haven’t yet met him. 

He secures the venue, the ideas, and the safety requirements that they need to follow once they decide to host the party in the courtyard nestled right in the center of the square building. Fortunately and oddly enough, they do not prohibit access to the roof - and, besides, there’s a barred railing that lines the top of the building, so who cares if they anchor inflatable couches to the concrete rooftop?

According to Courfeyrac’s queued and persistent e-mail blasts, text messages, and daily flyers tacked to apartment doors, there will be inflatable balls, a bounce house, bubbles, an inflatable slide, inflatable chairs, an inflatable hamster ball - everything inflatable in addition to the couches on the roof. Except the drinks, those will be liquid. And will be kept in an inflatable cooler.

For the first time in his life, Grantaire plans to be late to the party. Free swim has been cancelled, but it’s thirty minutes after Friday night’s practice and Enjolras has yet to pass through the locker room. Grantaire takes his time with showering and dressing, the ache in his biceps familiar and expected whenever he lifts his arms above his head. 

Most of the team has cleared out by the time he ties his sneakers, and he reassures all of them that he will catch up with them at the party. He balls his wet swimsuit inside his towel and stuffs it in his gym bag. Despite his care and best effort, his skin is still humid and damp and his clothes stick to him when he straightens.

He gives Enjolras one more moment to appear, stalling as he eyes himself critically in the mirror, and rakes his fingers back through his drying hair. There’s pencil lead stuck beneath his fingernails and he picks at that too, long enough to wonder to whom he’s giving time: Enjolras or himself.

Finally, in spite of his pounding heart, he goes to the pool deck.

Bubbles rise to the surface of the water, the bullseye in the ripple rings that expand towards the edge of the pool. Enjolras has just jumped and now exists as colors in the depth of the water, bleeding together like diluted paint. Grantaire waits in the stillness and eyes the high dive, standing tall and unassuming, like it didn’t mean to make itself into a mountain for Enjolras. 

Seconds tick by, and Enjolras eventually surfaces, several feet away from where Grantaire first saw him. They have barely talked throughout the week, though Enjolras did bring him another latte to their film screening this morning, even with Grantaire skipping all of the week’s free swims. 

Still, Enjolras blinks the water from his eyes and pushes his wet bangs from his brow, and seems entirely unsurprised to see Grantaire waiting for him.

Grantaire realizes the real reason why he had waited to talk to Enjolras now, when he has Enjolras alone with the diving board: Enjolras is vulnerable in moments like these, where he’s confronting his monster, and so Grantaire feels somehow as if they’re on equal footing.

“Could we talk in a few minutes?” Enjolras asks, breathless, though Grantaire doesn’t think it’s from treading water. “I want to hear what you have to say, and I can meet you by the door - ”

“Montparnasse told me about your last diving meet,” Grantaire says, as mildly as he can manage, though Enjolras’ expression steels immediately. He eyes Grantaire like a trust has been betrayed, keeping himself low to the water like a predator when it’s hungry. Grantaire slips his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and waits, watching Enjolras’ loose hairs as they fan around him in the water. The pool thrums in the silence, as if agitated on Enjolras’ behalf.

Finally, Enjolras closes his eyes and swims towards the ladder. “I think we have more pressing matters to cover first,” he says thinly.

“You do this after every practice,” Grantaire presses. “Right? You spend at least a half hour every day doing pencils off the high dive, so there’s something about it that’s still haunting you. And has been haunting you for four years. That’s pressing, too.”

Honestly, Grantaire is surprised that Enjolras lets him say so much. He tries not to stare at dewdrops of water that cling to Enjolras’ skin as his shoulder blades peak and he climbs from the pool. Grantaire tries not to fixate on the water lines running down his thighs like the lines in tree bark.

Enjolras stops at the edge of the pool and stares at Grantaire from across it; the tension in his jaw is so severe that Grantaire can see it.

“If I talk to you about this, will you finally talk with me about varsity?” he asks like he’s pulling his own teeth.

“Yes,” Grantaire says immediately.

Enjolras shifts his weight, bristling. He then casts a glance towards the diving board, a look passing over his face that Grantaire thinks resembles how David once looked at Goliath, and says, “Eponine left, right? I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes, and give you a ride to Courfeyrac’s. We can talk then.”

 

Enjolras’ car smells like peppermint and Grantaire recognizes the twine that’s tied around the dry sprigs attached to his rearview mirror. Eponine gave him an identical bundle at the end of the last school year.

“Excuse the mess,” Enjolras mumbles as he fits himself into the driver’s seat of his hybrid, his knobby knees bumping against the steering wheel.

Politely, Grantaire scoffs and buckles his seat belt as he offers a, “You should see my car,” but he can’t excuse the incredible mess in the back seat, as much as he wants to.

He’s caught peeks and heard the rustling of the crumpled papers in Enjolras’ backpack, but this is different. From a brief glance into the back, Grantaire can make out at least ten outfits, thirteen textbooks (some of which are spread open and facedown), four empty water bottles, ten packets of stapled paper, five mirror-back buttons, an upside-down mug, a pack of gel pens, and a children’s book. Were it not for the hybrid status of the car, Grantaire would never have paired it with Enjolras - its piles of mess don’t match his punctuality or the sharpness of his gaze or the composure in his words.

Or, then again, maybe they do.

Enjolras starts the car and leans towards the center console to adjust his seat belt; Grantaire smells the berry extract in his shampoo first, followed by the chlorine in its shadow.

As Enjolras turns off the public talk radio, Grantaire feels compelled to ask, “Has your hair ever turned green from being a swimmer?”

“No,” Enjolras says, glancing in the rearview mirror before he backs out of his parking spot. “My parents made me switch to special chlorine shampoo the instant I started swimming in middle school. It seemed like everyone was very concerned about it.”

“I think green would look fetching on you.” When Enjolras’ lips pull upwards, Grantaire continues, “I bet you could pull it off, even that sick, nauseous chlorine green. It’s not usually a flattering look, but I’m sure you could turn it around.”

“I appreciate the faith,” Enjolras says. “But I tried to reclaim bell bottoms last year, and I’m pretty sure I failed.”

Grantaire turns his whole body towards Enjolras. “Did you really?” he whispers, eyes wide. “Because if you’re fucking with me, you’re cruel. I didn’t even know I needed you in bell bottoms until now.”

Enjolras gives him a sideways smile that crushes his newfound dream. And also spawns new ones - new, heartbeat-skipping, chest-knotting, utterly devoted dreams. They take Grantaire from the passenger seat like the wind takes balloons, and he’s stuck staring blindly at the ‘PRIDE’ button on Enjolras’ visor.

“So,” Enjolras says quietly as he slows at a stop light. Grantaire blinks and casts his gaze through the windshield, squinting. “Will you stay on varsity?”

“No, we’re not talking about my thing first,” Grantaire murmurs, watching the row of cars pass through the intersection.

“Why not?”

“Because mine is more relevant,” he says. “Mine will come up soon, no matter what. If I don’t talk about it tonight, I’ll have to talk about it tomorrow. Yours is something that you can run from and hide forever.”

“I’m not running from it,” Enjolras counters sharply. “If I ran from it, I would never set foot on diving board again. Trust me, I tried to do that, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t be in a pool every day and just ignore the diving board.”

A pair crosses the intersection in front of them; the buckles on the girl’s boots catch the beams from Enjolras’ headlights.

“So you miss it,” Grantaire prompts in the silent car.

“Yes,” Enjolras confesses, voice barely there, soft in a way that feels unnatural for him. “I don’t know what Montparnasse told you, or why he even cared, but the injury wasn’t severe. I got an MRI and everything was normal - no concussion, just minor bruising on my scalp. And remembering it now, it didn’t even hurt. It was more shocking than anything.”

Grantaire can tell there’s more to say. He chances a sideways glance at Enjolras; the red light glows across his face, and the night casts dark shadows beneath his brow and cheekbones. He has never looked so expressionless, and, for once, Grantaire won’t dare to speak. He’s afraid that Enjolras has forgotten to whom he’s talking, and he won’t remind him.

“Before anything registered, I was breathless in the water,” he continues, gathering the scattered and broken pieces to the story, bundling them together to make something coherent. “I felt odd. Different. But all I could focus on was getting back to air. I was shaking so badly that I needed to be helped from the pool - my body was way ahead of my mind. It knew what had happened, but I still didn’t.”

Grantaire works through the lines in Enjolras’ face, the tension in his voice, the folds in his flannel - everything to memorize this moment, to arm himself with the details needed to later immortalize it on paper. Enjolras is confiding in him, whether he means to or not, handing him a glass part of himself and trusting Grantaire to keep it safe.

He feels special before he remembers that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are surely familiar with these fragile parts of Enjolras.

“I love the butterfly,” Enjolras continues once the light turns green. The barriers again rise in his voice. “But I’d like to dive again, just once. I know my body remembers how to do it, there’s just something stopping it every time I try.”

He glances sideways at Grantaire as he drives. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Grantaire pretends that didn’t hurt and he shrugs. “Plenty.”

“Why was Montparnasse talking about me?” Enjolras asks with mild irritation. “He was a gymnast, I didn’t even think he went to swim meets.”

“Maybe he heard it through the grapevine.”

They pass a hoard on the sidewalk, a cluster of students huddled outside a brightly-lit house, all of whom are either shirtless, wearing school-colored overalls, or in wet t-shirts. Now that they’ve passed into the on-campus neighborhoods, the street is golden, glowing in the afterthought of the illuminated house windows.

“Your turn,” Enjolras says firmly.

“Combeferre said you wanted to talk with me first,” Grantaire counters. “I want to hear what you have to say before I make my decision.”

Enjolras sets one hand on top of the steering wheel. “Fair,” he allows quietly and with less fight than Grantaire expects. “I still believe you could have won that 500. I believed it then and I believe it now. Why would you think that I had set you up to fail?”

There he goes again, saying things every captain should say. They’re four blocks from Courfeyrac’s building, four blocks from a bottle of wine. Outside, someone screams, and Grantaire doesn’t know it’s from joy or horror, but a lot of him wants to join in.

He doesn’t respond.

“I haven’t handled this in the best way,” Enjolras admits with the beginnings of irritation, which Grantaire guesses is born from his silence. “I apologize. I should have checked myself before forcing you into a conversation you weren’t ready for.”

The tension leaves Enjolras’ voice as quickly as it had come and Grantaire’s throat feels tight. He now stares out the passenger side window, watching as a group tosses toilet paper rolls into a large tree.

“You know, a conversation can only really be called a conversation if there are at least two participants,” Enjolras adds stiffly.

“Not true,” Grantaire says, almost automatically. “I have the best late night conversations with myself.”

“Grantaire.”

“I’ll swim varsity.”

The way he sees it, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s grown used to the sticker that Feuilly stuck to the bottom of their start block and Bahorel’s ever-changing water bottle (Grantaire has yet to see him use the same one twice). He’s grown used to the new depth of their lane, how he can stand only on the tips of his toes, and how it leaves him bouncing leisurely in their downtime. The sunlight reflects differently over there, he can better hear the music they play over the speakers, and he’s now close enough to Eponine to exchange looks over the lanes between them.

And now he’s close enough to Enjolras to see the instances when he thinks no one is looking, his perfectly imperfect moments, when he looks more like a human than a leader. The brief and red lines his nails leave when he scratches his shoulder, the clench of his jaw when he surfaces from a lap and finds his time unsatisfactory, the special flush in the tip of his nose that blooms only after his longest runs.

One block to a bottle of wine.

Beside him, Enjolras nods. He clicks the blinker and it ticks quietly in their silence.

“Glad to hear it,” Enjolras finally says. “Thank you.”

Enjolras finds a spot for himself at the curb right in front of Courfeyrac’s building.

And the rest of Grantaire’s night happens in snapshots, small, significant pieces of events. First, glowing iced cubes in his white wine, lanterns strung about the courtyard and encased in metallic paper that makes them look like bubbles. The pain in his stomach when he laughs at Bossuet, who gets his human hamster ball stuck in the corner of the building.

Then, the red wine so dark and dry that Grantaire tells Jehan he thinks it tastes like the desert sky, Eponine challenging him to a bubble-blowing war, Courfeyrac reclined on an inflatable sofa and throwing ping-pong balls off the roof, aiming for Marius’ drink cup.

Lastly, the romantic spin: disappearances to the fire escape, into the deepest shadows of the courtyard, all of these things that don’t really matter because Grantaire (too many wine glasses down) and Enjolras (always sober, intoxicated only on caffeine), call a turn in the hamster ball simultaneously, and when Combeferre settles the argument with, “Both of you at the same time”, Enjolras doesn’t back down. 

All of the couples kissing and even more people pining, and glances thrown like blown kisses - all of these things don’t matter because Grantaire ends up wedged against Enjolras, heart racing for its life as Enjolras’ thigh presses to his and Enjolras’ arm cages him against the bubble for comfort - both of them laughing as they tip backwards, their breath fogging the plastic. Enjolras’ shirt riding up as they tumble upside down, his warm skin, the order he tries to bring to this chaos by trying to coordinate their movements between his laughing.

None of it matters, nothing matters because the world outside is marbled oranges, blacks, purples, just colors of what it used to be, and Enjolras’ hair tickles his cheek, Enjolras’ vanilla cologne consumes the small spaces between them. Enjolras’ smile, so wide that Grantaire can see all of his teeth - that, that is what matters, and Grantaire is drunk enough, in-love enough, to believe that so much that he feels it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr @ andtheheir


	3. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire spends his practice entertaining the notion that he and Enjolras have a secret. They catch gazes from across the lanes, both red-cheeked and breathless and Grantaire feels like things are different, something more, like they’re both hiding the scars of a new blood pact.
> 
> (He watches the ceiling tiles pass as he swims and wonders when he became such an optimist.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! i started reading the secret history.

Grantaire thinks about him and Enjolras in that bubble a lot.

While he’s not sure of what it means, everyone else is more than willing to offer their opinions.

“So what exactly happened in the car ride over to Courf’s?” Eponine asks him Saturday, the moment he can be defined as awake and human again. “Because I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re dating now, R, that was so gay.”

Combeferre doesn’t speak of it, but tosses a look to Grantaire from over his coffee first thing Monday.

Courfeyrac texts him ‘bubble buddies’, accompanied with a winking emoji.

After practice, Jehan casually talks around the topic in the locker room, until everyone else has cleared out. Then he looks pointedly at Grantaire as he braids his damp hair and says, “I’ve never seen either of you laugh like that, and I think that says a lot.”

(Grantaire’s instinct is to deny that, but he has also never seen Enjolras laugh so hard, nor has he laughed so hard himself, so he just says, “Oh boy, you didn’t see me when Bossuet got stuck, then.”)

The only one who doesn’t have anything to say, for once, is Enjolras. He still smiles at Grantaire when Grantaire walks into French film, and he still buys Grantaire the occasional latte, and he still stays after practice to jump off the diving board.

And so, into October, Grantaire doesn’t say anything, either.

 

October comes lazy, looking identical to September until a week in. Grantaire entertains the idea that he’s the one who started the Real October because the biting wind and sinking daylight don’t really start until after he buys his first pumpkin spice latte. What’s left of the green leaves sigh their last and pale to yellow, then curl into their brown; they catch in Grantaire’s knitted scarf as he walks to class.

Eponine has already decorated their apartment in a warm bronze and set their pumpkins just inside their front door (“I don’t trust the frat boys downstairs to not destroy them, so they stay inside the door”). When the sun is at its highest, just before noon, it pours into the living room and catches the tourmaline that she has put on the coffee table, which spills orange spots across the paintings on the walls. 

Everyday she doesn’t have her afternoon lecture, she boils a simmer pot of cinnamon, cloves, orange peel, and vanilla, and Grantaire comes home to the smell of every picture-perfect home featured on current lifestyle magazines.

He loves it. He loves fall, even though it leads to an antagonistic winter. Everything dies so poetically, so softly; he himself has always hoped he’d die with a bang, but if he can go like the leaves in the wind or the first frost on the browning grass, that would be okay, too.

They win their first meet in October. Grantaire swims his first varsity 100 backstroke and places second in his heat; Courfeyrac more or less hauls him out of the pool once he’s done and nearly takes Grantaire’s legs out from beneath him as he piles onto Grantaire and screams excitedly. And even Enjolras, who waits to pass Grantaire until all of the celebration has subsided, claps Grantaire on the shoulder, like he means it.

“Nice work,” he says, close to Grantaire’s ear, so close that Grantaire is afraid to move. “Do it again next week - you’ve got this.”

More captainly things, Grantaire reminds himself after Enjolras is gone, busy at the opposite end of the pool. He’s still just being the leader he needs to be, except now, whenever Enjolras touches him, he lingers, and Grantaire can still feel him there long after he’s gone.

It’s a neat and incredibly distracting trick.

 

Midterms barrel through their lives, uprooting their routines and forcing everyone to rearrange their schedule.

Free swims are cancelled for the week, practice ends a half hour early, and the idea of social drinking becomes a distant dream. The locker room is quieter, the stress palpable, even when Joly brings in cookies for everyone’s morale. 

Grantaire, being a fine arts major, has only one midterm test - French film. The rest of his are papers and projects, which he greatly prefers, since he seems less likely to set himself up to fail with a longer timeline.

Eponine essentially lives at the library the week of midterms, holed up in the social work back stacks, so Grantaire sees little reason to be at the apartment. He spends most of his time alternating between the drawing studio and design lab, though he always makes sure to bring Eponine a coffee before he goes. (Feuilly has been slipping her extra shots of espresso for free.)

The drawing studio is never empty - there are always at least five others among him, hunched over easels, mouths gaping in concentration, quiet among the soft hiss of utensils against paper. But Grantaire is still surprised when, in the middle of a Paris-centric architectural study, Montparnasse sets himself up beside him. 

Maybe it has less to do with Montparnasse’s presence and more to do with the fact that Montparnasse usually does a pretty good job of ignoring him outside the apartment.

Montparnasse sheds his dramatic, black coat, and drapes it over the seat of his stool. He acknowledges Grantaire with a brief glance before he opens his large-format sketchbook, full of models at varying sizes, and Grantaire figures that’s the end of that. He goes back to concentrating on his cobblestone sidewalk, earbuds buried in his ears.

Time passes in the twisting details of iron-barred railings and curtains drawn in windows. Grantaire can always tell when he’s lost himself in his work because he ends up hunched and with his face an inch from the paper, breathing in the lead that stains his fingertips silver. He’s certainly lost himself by the time there’s a tap on his shoulder.

He blinks and his eyes water - he can feel his joints shifting and wakening like unearthed stone as he straightens on his stool. He finds Montparnasse waiting for him, his enormous headphones adorning his pale neck like a scarf, and his two-fingered drawing glove still pulled over his right hand.

“Yes?” Grantaire asks, a little loudly as he plucks the earbuds from his ears. The silent room feels like cotton around him. Montparnasse’s paper is already filled with figures, mostly people and what Grantaire assumes to be the folds in clothing.

“I told you about Enjolras, so now I want you to tell me something,” Montparnasse murmurs, the velvet of his voice an appropriate level for the room.

Grantaire cocks an eyebrow. “Conversations don’t have to be bargaining tools, they can just happen, you know,” he murmurs and clears his throat to try to smooth out his voice. “But go ahead. What do you want?”

An odd look passes over Montparnasse’s face, though it’s gone as quickly as it had come, there and then deep under the calm waters of his usual expression.

“Is Jehan single?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. Had he not seen Montparnasse’s mouth move, he would have never believed that those three words had passed from his thin lips. Montparnasse, the very definition of If Looks Could Kill, who wears gold-plated brass knuckles as a fashion accessory and keeps with him a comb that’s a sheathed blade - is now sitting there, with his winter-slate eyes and set jaw after asking that.

“Wait, seriously?” Grantaire blurts because it’s too hilarious, too absurd.

Montparnasse narrows his eyes. “Why would I be anything but serious?”

“Because you’re you,” Grantaire says like it’s obvious. “You’re dangerous and hot to boot and I’ve never once believed you couldn’t coax anyone into saying anything. Why are you asking me like we’re in high school when you could just ask him yourself?

“Wait,” Grantaire says abruptly when Montparnasse begins to impatiently tap his gloved fingers across the edge of his easel, looking very much like he’s imagining Grantaire inside out. “What about Babet?”

“What about Babet?” Montparnasse asks him coolly.

“Aren’t you two a thing? I can’t think of a single party that didn’t end with the two of you locked in a bedroom. He’s a chemistry grad student - why else would he show up to any dumbass undergrad parties?”

Montparnasse tips his chin up in the slightest and he watches Grantaire with condescending amusement. “You’ve never wanted to fuck your best friend?”

“Well - ”

“Back to my first question.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and leans over to pull his water bottle from his bag. “I think he is single, but fuck if I know for sure.” He realizes then why Montparnasse only gives his attention to Eponine and Jehan during their meets. Grantaire opens his water bottle with his teeth. “Jehan is as nice as they come, you know. No way he’d hold it against you for asking even if he wasn’t interested.”

“I know,” Montparnasse says, softer than Grantaire expects.

Something in his voice makes Grantaire think that Montparnasse has drawn Jehan as many times as he’s drawn Enjolras.

The room still hisses with moving pencils - if one of the two students not wearing headphones has been eavesdropping, they have the good grace and intelligence to not show it. The sun beams in through the high windows at a noticeably different angle, now, and Grantaire realizes that he’s been here for hours.

“It seems like Enjolras is no longer holding anything over your head,” Montparnasse says, back to his easy and quietly dangerous demeanor, as if to remind Grantaire who is really in control of this situation. He plucks a new piece of charcoal from his pencil folio. “Perhaps it’s because he knows you now have something against him.”

Grantaire watches as Montparnasse blackens the curve of what looks like a bare foot. “If I’m following you,” he says, “then no, I’m not going to hold Enjolras’ past trauma over him like that. I’m not a good man, but something tells me that won’t earn his favor.”

He stands from his stool and stretches, working out the new knots in his shoulders. When Montparnasse doesn’t respond, he says, “Enjolras said you’re a gymnast.”

“Was.”

“Why stop?”

Montparnasse exudes a new annoyance and starts on a different line. “Why does anyone stop anything?”

“Were you there?” Grantaire asks. “Did you see Enjolras’ last dive?”

“I did.”

Among the reminder that Montparnasse will never say more about himself than necessary (Eponine still complains about it to this day), a thought occurs to Grantaire. It’s strange, something he doesn’t normally think would occur to him, but he has all of these pieces of the past and of the present, and he finds that two of them, seemingly as different as they come, may be a match after all.

“I will ask Jehan what he thinks of you if you help Enjolras dive again.”

All of the pencil strokes in the room stop (coincidence, Grantaire tells himself). The last of Montparnasse’s charcoal lines is so dense that it leaves flecks of charcoal on the paper, broken off like chips in the sidewalk. 

“That hardly seems fair,” Montparnasse murmurs and slowly straightens, his two bare fingertips blackened as if he’s been playing in soot. “You talk to Jehan once, and I have to fake my way through therapy sessions with your boyfriend?”

“I never said sessions, plural, I never even said session, singular,” Grantaire says and Montparnasse gives him a narrow, sideways look, his mouth pressed into a firm and menacing line. “It just might be nice for him to hear something from someone who knows what it’s like to have life after a fall.”

“Gymnastics and diving are two very different arts.”

“Are they, though?” Grantaire counters quietly. “Why else would you take such an interest in diving, Jehan aside? From my ignorant perspective, diving is just gymnastics with water.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. But the threat of approaching Jehan himself keeps Montparnasse quiet for the moment, keeps the corner of his lips down-turned. Grantaire wonders how he’d react if he told him that Jehan names all of his belongings, that he spends a lot of his free time reading poetry in the campus greenhouse, that Jehan’s favorite pair of sneakers is aqua. 

On the surface, Montparnasse could devour Jehan, catch him in his sharp teeth and swallow him alive, but Grantaire has to respect Montparnasse and his intuition for sensing the hard corners hidden in Jehan’s softness. For as kind and warm Jehan is, he his equal parts threatening; he admires and takes after both a flower’s petals and its thorns.

“I will not be held liable if Enjolras doesn’t listen to me,” Montparnasse says firmly. He sets his charcoal down and wipes his fingers on the cloth that he has clipped to the edge of his easel - he leaves two, daunting lines of charcoal across it. “And I will only meet with him once. You will find some inconspicuous way to mention me to Jehan - I don’t want him to know that we have this deal.”

“You sure? He’d probably find it charming. No offense, but you’re kind of unapproachable.”

“That’s not offensive,” Montparnasse says pleasantly. He eyes his sketch pad critically; he shares Enjolras’ talent of looking flattering in any lighting. The studio light, one-third natural and two-thirds fluorescent (unless a lamp is present for a shadow study), is meant to expose everything, right down to the foundation lines that hide blemishes on cheeks. 

But all it does for Montparnasse is wash him out in a good way. His pale face softens like a diffused glow and he looks haunting, porcelain white in contrast to the black he wears.

Montparnasse looks at Grantaire, eyes narrowed. “You _can_ be subtle, right?” he asks bluntly.

Grantaire shrugs and his stomach growls. The Pop Tart and RumChata coffee he had for breakfast had not been as filling as he had first thought. He closes his book on his sketchy Paris. “Guess you’ll have to find out,” he says. “You don’t have a choice.”

“I could ask Eponine to talk to him.”

“Yeah, but you know I’m closer to him, so that’s why you came to me, right?” Grantaire returns easily as he slips off of his stool. He adjusts his beanie and begins to pack his things away back into his bag. “No matter how subtle Eponine could be, it would be more obvious if she brought you up in conversation.”

Montparnasse’s jaw tenses. He’s back to watch Grantaire like he’s thinking of the most efficient way to kill him.

“Relax, I do have a secret reserve of tact inside of me,” Grantaire says as he pulls on his jacket. “As long as you hold up your end of the deal.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

“I don’t believe that,” Grantaire says and hoists his bag onto his shoulder before he tucks his chin into his scarf. “But I think you know what’s at stake, and if you want this to end well for you, you’ll take care. See you at the apartment tonight?”

Montparnasse shakes his head and wipes off his fingers again. “Nope.”

“Fine,” Grantaire murmurs as he passes. “Next time you see me then, I’ll have your answer, and you better have a date set to meet with Enjolras.”

 

Jehan makes it easy for him; he texts Grantaire the next day and asks if Grantaire would like to work on midterms in the library archives that afternoon. Jehan, being a poetry emphasis in the creative writing track, knows the pros and cons of midterms coming in the form of projects instead of exams. Grantaire is in the middle of lying in bed and staring at the line art on his easel when he agrees.

The library archives are one of the best kept secrets on campus. Where the library back stacks are claustrophobic, sterile and oppressive, the archives are charmingly and whimsically old. Classic. The only window in the chilly room is a far away sky light, distant enough to keep the sun from touching the walls of dark leather and worn canvas book spines. The shelves that compose the room’s walls are tall enough to warrant their own ladders. The smell of old paper and ornately carved tables and oriental rugs on the creaky hardwood floor boards; they’re two of only four students in the archives, and their coffee cups are technically prohibited, but Jehan waves at the desk clerk as they step through the heavy door, and Grantaire suspects that they’re an exception to the rule.

Jehan chooses for them the square table in the back, the one that’s close enough to the poetry shelves to see the ridges and flaking gold leaf on the spines. They each spread themselves out, Jehan among the several books and notebooks that had weighed down his backpack covered in iron-on patches, and Grantaire with his film textbook, notebook, and irrelevant sketchbook for when he’s too antsy. 

He doesn’t realize just how much he doesn’t want to study until he sits down and tries to read the introduction to his shallowly-browsed textbook, so he turns most of his attention to his sketchpad.

They work quietly for hours - counted by a grandfather clock that ticks in the corner - with mumbled words and quiet laughs passing between them. It’s late afternoon but the sun is still bright enough to find the dust particles that float through the center of the old room, and Grantaire finds himself distracted by their lazy movements more than once.

And Jehan continues to make this easy for Grantaire: Grantaire comes back from fetching their coffee refills from downstairs and finds Jehan retwisting his hair back into its loose bun. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and with a soft smile. “Sometimes I think Montparnasse belongs in a classical novel, but I can’t decide which.”

When Grantaire raises his eyebrows, Jehan sticks a bobby pin into his mouth and speaks around it, “Montparnasse is Eponine’s friend, right? The one who’s always at our meets and parties? Always dressed in black?”

“Yep,” Grantaire says and takes a sip of his coffee, despite the steam drifting out from beneath the lid. “What made you think of him?”

Jehan shrugs faintly, lofty smile still in place. The notebook in front of him lays open to a page covered in words, over half of which seem to be crossed out, and his handwriting is about as legible as Enjolras’. “He kind of looks like this room, you know? Dramatic, lined in gold, like he stepped right out of a Poe piece or a Wilde poem or Baudelaire. I mean, he’s obviously not old and worn out like the books, but, I don’t know, I feel like a lot of these could have been written about him.”

Grantaire thinks this bodes very, very well. “I think he looks like he walked out of Bram Stoker’s most notorious novel.”

Jehan laughs at that, though not unkindly. The dust stirs around them, as if delighted by the sound. “He’s not a vampire, I’ve seen him in the sunlight. In his black, billowy jacket - I guess he could also be straight from Arthur Conan Doyle, too.”

“He might actually be James Moriarty, and there’s a real possibility that Babet is Sebastian Moran, so just watch yourself, okay?”

Jehan takes a sip of his scalding coffee (“I’ll take mine as black as night, please”) and glances sideways. “So you think Moriarty and Moran were more than friends or colleagues, too?” he asks distantly. “I’m ignoring the fact that Moriarty is canonically old, by the way.”

“Probably, though I couldn’t write you a five-paragraph essay on it with MLA citations at the end,” Grantaire says. “I think I mostly want a mastermind or sniper boyfriend for myself. But what I do know is that Montparnasse and Babet are not more than friends.”

Jehan blinks in the silence that follows - Grantaire hopes that his next conversation of this nature will be in a louder room, where his words don’t stick to the walls after he’s spoken them. He is trying to speak softly, he really is, but the way his voice lingers in his ears like tinnitus tells him he’s not very good at it. He’d also like a drink if he ever has to play matchmaker like this again - a drink or five, because he still thinks this is beneath all of them, and he’d deserve it.

“You’re sure?” Jehan asks quietly, in a tentatively hopeful tone that makes Grantaire think that this indeed bodes _very_ well.

“Yep, don’t let their PDA fool you,” Grantaire says and begins to sketch a couple of curls on his paper. Then, to even the playing field, he adds, “I think you should talk to him. He likes you.”

A slow smile spreads across Jehan’s mouth and he beams at Grantaire, a contagious smile that appears on Grantaire’s face as well before he even realizes it. “I didn’t realize you two were close,” he says. “He told you so? I always thought I’d ruin his aesthetic.”

“Opposites attract, you compliment him like sweet to salty,” Grantaire says and the grandfather clock chimes the top of the hour. “He’s at our place all the time, and yes, he told me so.”

Jehan picks up his pen and finds room on his page for a few more words. Grantaire wonders how many of them are about Montparnasse, if any of the dozens of tabbed pages in his books remind him of Montparnasse’s space-black hair or his long legs - does Jehan immortalize Montparnasse’s moments on paper the way he puts Enjolras’ on canvas?

Surely, surely he is not the only love-drunk sap on campus. Surely.

“Thanks, R,” Jehan offers quietly, sincerely. He slips out of his jean jacket (much too thin for the weather outside, but Jehan is the one who wears a hat in winter not because he’s cold, but because it’s floppy and he’s fond of it), and drapes it over the back of his chair. Grantaire responds with a good-hearted salute and they both go back to creating art about beautiful boys with tapered fingers. 

 

Monday morning’s newspaper reads ‘Dean to approve tuition raise despite student protests,’ and Grantaire knows the exact fine form in which he will find Enjolras in film class that afternoon. 

He is entirely correct: lips chewed red, bangs pulled loose from their bobby pins and curling over his brow, thumbs moving furiously over his phone screen, and the toe of his boot tapping against the tile like there is too much inside him, like all of him needs to be moving in order to keep himself in tact.

Grantaire has missed something about this - now that midterms are over, he feels like he’s finally seeing the Enjolras he knows, Enjolras as he should be, which is restless over something that actually matters as opposed to a miniscule exam. Small problems are always wasted on Enjolras; he was created for the big picture dilemma, the issues in the world that claim ticker tapes and make it to the mouths of the world’s elites.

Grantaire knows, has always known, that Enjolras is destined for the world events that make history books.

He has two cups of Feuilly’s coffee in his hands; he sets one on Enjolras’ desk. Enjolras continues typing and so Grantaire waits, eventually resisting the urge to run his fingers through Enjolras tousled and wind-swept hair. And then the urge to tuck the tag back into Enjolras’ undone peacoat, and pluck away the crumpled leaf that clings to his collar. 

Grantaire belatedly notices the severe line of his shoulders, drawn up and peaked, and that’s too many things to resist, so he finally sits.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes a moment later, as their professor walks in with unkind words about the weather: ‘Thank u. - E’.

Enjolras texts all through class and Grantaire didn’t think he could be even more infatuated with Enjolras, but he is. Enjolras stops only to sip from his coffee and contribute a sentence to the discussion so their professor pays no mind to his downward glances or hands tucked into his pockets. He’s a pro at it, really, and Grantaire feels privileged in spite of himself to watch Enjolras try to secretly save the school’s tuition.

“So, what next?” Grantaire asks him after class, half-provoking, purely because he wants to see the fire kindle in Enjolras’ eyes. He remembers their last tuition-centric conversation, but the things he does for the front-row seat to Enjolras’ anger may just be endless. “The dean doesn’t seem to check his fan mail.”

“We knock on his front door,” Enjolras says stiffly. “I appreciate the coffee, Grantaire, but I’d really rather not argue with you right now. I already know your thoughts on the matter.”

Grantaire wanted anger, fire and fury, but he got disappointment, water-logged and drowning.

“The dean will probably say the same thing to you,” he says, presses. “Verbatim, actually, from the comfort of his imported sofa and in front of his projector-screened television.”

“And if you had your way, it would stop there and he’d finish his seasons of Game of Thrones in peace.” Enjolras sips from his coffee again and stands, buttoning his jacket. He leaves the top two undone. “While you’re at it, you may as well buy him a case of wine and a new pair of slippers for him to enjoy while he’s lounging. Did you even read the article from the paper?”

“Nah. I revel in the privilege to keep my eyes and ears closed to all upsetting current events.”

“So you deny your duty as a member of society,” Enjolras says irritably as he pulls his scarf from his bag - it leaves a soft crinkling of disturbed paper in its wake. “I know you know how irresponsible that is. You’re better than that.”

Once more, Grantaire wishes he could be the Grantaire in Enjolras’ head. “Clearly not.”

“Did you give my phone number to Montparnasse?” Enjolras asks pointedly as they leave the classroom, Enjolras still sipping from his coffee. It’s barely even four in the afternoon but the day is already dusky, a dark gray that hangs low around the street lamps; it’s perfect for the idea of a nap.

“No,” he says honestly. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re the only one who knows my number that talks to him.”

Grantaire had expected Montparnasse to approach Enjolras directly. He shrugs.

“And,” Enjolras continues and turns, using his back to push open the front door so that he can keep his eyes on Grantaire, “because you’re the only one who knows about my diving incident that has talked with him about it. He’s offered to, quote, help me.”

Grantaire breathes in the thin autumn air, quietly lamenting at the perfect day to do nothing more. He wonders if anyone could possibly convince Enjolras to cancel practice on account of lethargic weather. Beside him, Enjolras’ nose has already gone pink and Grantaire forever damns the romantic in his artistic soul - he wants to take Enjolras apple picking. To a corn maze. For apple cider and pumpkin scones on a day exactly like today, where they can sit together in wool socks and sweatshirts.

“I didn’t give him your number,” Grantaire says.

“Fine, I’ll allow that since he’s had the entire student body in his back pocket since high school, but why does he want to help me? I doubt his good faith to help someone just to help them.”

Grantaire wonders what kind of face Enjolras would carve into a jack-o-lantern. If he prefers his roasted pumpkin seeds with salt or sugar. If he would adopt a black cat just before Halloween to make sure it stays safe.

“He was a gymnast,” Grantaire murmurs, watching the yellow grass as they pass. “Maybe you should hear what he has to say.”

Enjolras goes quiet, which is hardly ever a good thing for Grantaire. But when he chances a look at Enjolras, he doesn’t see the hardset lines in his brow or the lecture swelling between his gritted teeth. There is instead a quiet and maybe troubled thoughtfulness, the frown on his chapped lips not born from anger but from confusion. The blush has spread to his cheeks and the wind encourages his small ponytail to loosen, agitating his hair until it sits back behind his ears and shows his cartilage rings - his cheek hollows as he chews it. 

Then, finally, “Did you ask him to help me?” he asks like he already knows the answer.

Grantaire stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and shrugs. “You know me, I hardly do anything for anyone else, either,” he says quietly. They stop at a crosswalk alone, and the cars that pass kick up flurries of leaves. “I just want to see you dive.”

Enjolras is watching him now, eyes clear, leaning forward a bit as if it helps him focus, as if he can better see all of Grantaire’s subtleties, like the translucent freckles on his cheeks or the unfinished canvases in his room.

The stoplight cycles through its colors. By the time it’s their turn, Enjolras seems content with what he’s found, whatever it is, and steps off the curb. 

“I’ll hear what he has to say,” he murmurs, close to the lip of his coffee mug.

 

From then on, Montparnasse keeps his eyes on his easel during figure drawing, and Grantaire assumes that’s the end of that.

 

Eponine, complaining about symptoms of a cold, goes to bed early a few nights later, and so Grantaire takes a bottle of wine to his room, shuts himself in, and stands in front of his easel, in front of his unfinished painting.

He sips himself through the initial step of his creative process - the reckoning of the image he has in his head versus the utter lack of faith in himself to copy it to canvas. No amount of his training or practice could possibly translate the ethereal color he’d seen between Enjolras’ shoulder and the sun beams that afternoon. 

The wine is smooth as it goes down and warm as it nests in his chest - the unseen tension of the memory will be impossible to convey through brush strokes, but he had felt it, the silent argument between Enjolras and the diving board and the water; it was monumental, the heart-seizing moment that breathes inspiration into anything static.

Grantaire licks his lips, now sour with the lingering alcohol. The clock reads 10:59 and the moon outside is full through his window. He sets the bottle down.

In his intoxication, his head clouds but his hands steady. A flush sits high on his cheeks (pleasant, unlike Enjolras’ recurring cold-bitten blush) and he finds brush strokes, he finds clear blues and yellows in the sun’s whites, finds the bottomless shadows where Enjolras’ feet meet the diving board. 

He’s drunk, but he hurts when the recollection takes hold, when he digs through the pain of Enjolras’ trauma to find the right lines for the tension of his arms, when he steeps in his own helplessness to create the deep angles of the pool and the ladder and the windows to make the viewer feel truly like a voyeur.

In the end, he doesn’t give Enjolras an expression - he hardly gives him a face. He lets the sun spill over him, smother him like Grantaire wants to - envelop him and consume him, devour him, all of him on top of white bed sheets.

Grantaire falls asleep just after two, aching. He falls asleep in his jeans and in the soft glow of his desk lamp, his paint brushes stuck in his mug of dirty water and the wine bottle half empty.

 

(And, when he wakes for class the next morning, he doesn’t at all hate what he’s done.)

 

Combeferre gets what seems like an onslaught of the flu en route to their next meet. Grantaire rides in Jehan’s car this time and they watch from behind as Enjolras turns on his hazards and pulls to the side of the county road so that Combeferre can stumble out of the passenger’s seat to vomit in the ditch. 

Eponine hops out of the back of their car right as Enjolras darts from the driver’s seat of his and as Courfeyrac appears from the back, all of them rushing to Combeferre’s side; in the rearview mirror, Grantaire sees the rest of their caravan line up behind them on the shoulder.

Combeferre insists that he’s not feverish and Joly, with a set of latex gloves and a thermometer that he keeps in the first aid kit of his car, confirms that his temperature is only a degree above normal - but still. Enjolras argues that they should forfeit the meet. 

In the end, both Combeferre and Joly manage to calm him down enough to insist that the rest of the team can swim, provided they don’t feel sick as well, and, since Joly’s knee has been problematic today, he takes Combeferre home.

And all of this is the short story of how Grantaire finds himself, hours later, again on the starting block at the only heat of the varsity 500.

This time barely feels different than the last - hammer heart, quicksand mind - but as he kicks the tension out of his calves, as he wipes the water from the soles of his feet on the grated surface of the block, he _knows_ that this is different. 

He knows that Enjolras had skipped his own warm-up so that he could reorder the roster to account for Combeferre, all the while texting Combeferre for a second opinion. He knows that Enjolras had abruptly appeared at the end of the lane during Grantaire’s backstroke practice, and tapped his heels as he went into his flip turn (the barely-there graze of his cold fingers, almost tickling, so soft, but enough to stop Grantaire immediately).

He knows that, this time, Enjolras pulled him into the empty locker room and looked at him intently, his hair wild from running his fingers through it and his warm-up jacket half-zipped, sitting crooked on his shoulders. He said, “Combeferre was our only entry in the 500 and I need you to swim it. Please.”

(The thing about Grantaire is that no one, not even himself, can make him do anything. But he has never known a moment where the word ‘no’ was further from his lips.)

And now, Enjolras stands at the other end of the pool, his direct opposite, with the counter card in hand. He watches Grantaire with such a certainty that it reaches Grantaire through the lane lines between them. Enjolras’ chest and arms glitter with leftover beads of water and his hair is a poorly-tamed mess in its binder, unruly from being beneath a swim cap. As Grantaire snaps his goggles into place, Enjolras gives him the smallest, most meaningful nod. Grantaire’s chest swells and he bends.

When the buzzer sounds, he dives, charges, for his marble captain.

Enjolras’ presence, previously a discouragement, a reminder of everything Grantaire knows he lacks, is now a discipline. He tucks tighter into his flip turns, keeps his fingers pressed closer together as he plunges them into the water. When he turns his head to breathe, he hears the roar in the air, of his teammates that have gathered around Enjolras, screaming at Grantaire, for Grantaire.

Enjolras starts the urgency early, pumping the card up and down against the wall excitedly on lap fifteen, and, through the ache in his arms, the constriction in his lungs, Grantaire realizes why:

He’s neck-and-neck with the other two swimmers.

Something surges inside of him. It finds in his bones an energy that he didn’t believe existed, and when his feet hit the wall, he springs from it, knowing in an unfamiliar moment of clarity that he can actually do this.

By the time his counter marks red to indicate his last lap, he heaves in every breath. He feels like a cloth rung dry, like his arms smack the water no matter how much effort he puts into his form, but Enjolras is crouched so low that his entire arm is underwater as he drives the card up and down, water thrashing around it as he urges Grantaire onwards.

(When Grantaire flips, he sees him, eyes vicious and bright, screaming his utter credence in Grantaire’s ability to do this.)

Grantaire sees the movements of the other swimmers in his peripheral, caging him, trapping him. His fingers and toes tingle as he kicks, as he swims, as he goes because nothing else matters right now, he just needs to -

He surfaces the instant he touches the score pad attached to the wall. Through the clouds adhered to the lenses of his goggles, he finds his lane number and beside that, his time: five seconds better than his best, and ranked second in the heat.

It should feel like a failure, an insult to the knowledge that Combeferre would have crushed him, but he smiles so wide it hurts. He hears a far away cheer that he assumes is for him, but he feels like he’s in a fog, coming down from his rushing blood and his seizing lungs and his shaking legs. 

By the time he trusts his arms to pry himself from the pool, Courfeyrac and Bahorel are there to help him, crying excited nonsense in his ears and pulling him into vice-like hugs. It’s all a mess: chlorine stuck inside his nose and burning, the floor feeling too slippery, the chill of Courfeyrac’s skin against his own - a blend of his own breathless laughter and coming to terms with a swelling pride inside of him.

But then Enjolras is there, smiling so wide it reaches his eyes: the focus among the tangle of things that will later define this memory. He takes Grantaire from Bahorel and Grantaire’s world tilts, Enjolras’ arms around him and bare chest against his, tipping everything in Grantaire’s head sideways. They’re back in that goddamn hamster ball, the pool and people and walls around them nothing more than excess - Enjolras’ hair tickles his cheek and his laugh falls warm onto Grantaire’s jaw and Grantaire catches a glimpse of the things for which people say life is worth living. 

He’s beside himself in a way that he’s never felt at the bottom of the wine bottle, riding a high that hasn’t numbed him, but has instead made him hyper aware of everything: Enjolras’ toes resting against his, Enjolras’ shoulder blades under his fingers, the edges of Enjolras’ breath like singed paper as he says, “You were incredible.”

No, Grantaire drinks to forget, but this, he will remember this forever, the moment where he measured everything and found it all to be exactly right.

 

On the ride home, Grantaire stares at the tail lights of Enjolras’ car and imagines himself into the passenger’s seat, where he can watch the crescent moon through the sunroof and hold Enjolras’ hand on top of the gearshift. 

(He begins to miss his wine right about then.)

 

They accidentally buy coffee for each other Friday morning; Grantaire kind of loves the blank look on Enjolras’ face when he sees the two cups of coffee in Grantaire’s hands and says, “Now I know why Feuilly looked so coy while he was making mine.”

He also kind of loves the way they each sip from both cups during the film, like they have their own inside joke - he thinks he kind of loves how they can fight one day, and buy each other coffee the next.

(But, more than that, he’s kind of afraid of how normal this all feels.)

 

On his most contemplative walk to campus, he realizes how easy it is to hopelessly love Enjolras. It’s a feeling he’s always known, the timeless truth of why mortals fall in love with gods, but it’s jarring to think of it so plainly, so debilitating to face how far he has let himself fall. 

He’s lived the past three years developing habits and familiarities that stem from his infatuation. The curls in Enjolras’ hair fill the margins of his notebook, and he projects the lines of Enjolras’ back onto his empty canvases, and he imagines Enjolras’ fingers on hot, restless nights. 

He can live with these small details, as embarrassing as they are. But they are miniscule in the enormous face of the truth that Grantaire has loved, loves, will love Enjolras so much that, when he dwells on it, it chokes him.

The sidewalk beneath his sneakers is damp from last night’s rain; the sky is pale and looks as sick as he feels. The tragedy of when mortals fall in love with gods - he creates art from the most insignificant parts of Enjolras’ whole, pledges his memory to Enjolras’ chlorine-faded swimsuit and the time when he mis-buttoned his jacket. 

But those are nothing more than passing _things_ to Enjolras, dead leaves to be picked up by the wind. That night at Courfeyrac’s party, the hug after Grantaire’s 500: Grantaire is the only one who will tuck those to his chest.

He closes his eyes and pulls his beanie further down over the earbuds in his ears.

That’s right, he remembers, these are the things he drinks to forget.

 

The October sun finally shows itself, and Enjolras sets his sunglasses on top of his head during class, where they sit in the nest of his blond curls. And this, too, makes Grantaire ache.

 

Montparnasse stalks through the locker room after practice on Saturday and thoroughly stuns everyone. Dressed in a pair of black joggers (clearly more intended for fashion than activity), and a fitted t-shirt beneath his leather jacket, he goes right through the room, passing the benches like smoke - though Grantaire does catch the glance he throws to the shirtless Jehan.

“The fuck?” Courfeyrac blurts once Montparnasse has disappeared into the pool. Among the murmurs of agreement that follow, Jehan won’t stop smiling.

As much as Grantaire wants to witness this from a front row seat, he settles for watching Enjolras and Montparnasse from the pool lobby, where he can see the diving boards through a large window. He tells Eponine that he’ll walk home and doesn’t bother to ask if she knows that Montparnasse is even here before he settles into his sweatshirt and jacket, hood pillowing around his head. He pulls his phone from his pocket to try to stay inconspicuous, but it’s probably a wasted effort.

Enjolras and Montparnasse, for lack of a better phrase, go at it for about two hours. For the most part, they keep their noise below the soft hum of the music that echoes around the pool, though Grantaire thinks he hears the pitches of their voices when they decide to yell at each other while Enjolras is standing on one of the diving boards. Their gestures are the loudest parts of them, with Enjolras’ furious pointing and flailing hands that usually accompany an accusing step forward - and Montparnasse answers with a hand on his hip and a blasé (though no less intense) gesture.

Montparnasse, after what appears to be much arguing, starts Enjolras on the low dive. It’s almost better to watch them without sound, even with Grantaire's sincere investment to the outcome of this situation, because it soon becomes apparent that they’ll eventually back away from any flare up between them, that every brief storm of gesticulation and yelling ends in set jaws and rolling eyes and reluctant cooperation.

Thirty minutes in, Enjolras dives normally from the low dive, and Grantaire doesn’t know if that’s progress or not. He dives through the pale sunlight and surfaces in the shadows; from his place caught in the web reflecting off of the water, Montparnasse says something that makes Enjolras go back under.

Grantaire knows very well the danger of these two men - Montparnasse with his arsenal like the undertow and Enjolras with his claws like the white caps on rapids. One destroys like water and the other like fire - one cunning and one passionate.

And so, there’s something funny, yet oddly charming about them cooperating. Charming, and incredibly satisfying.

After several normal dives (many of which are followed by Montparnasse extending an arm or a leg to likely correct Enjolras’ posture), Enjolras ascends to the high dive. Montparnasse sheds his leather jacket and hangs it over the clock before he climbs onto the low dive. He stands there, shoulders straight and hands tucked into his pockets, posture perfect and effortless as he throws his words up to Enjolras, who stares down at him from the edge of the board. They’re both back lit, shadows in the vibrant Saturday, small under the gaze of the sunlight; Grantaire pockets his phone and takes out his sketchbook.

Just as Grantaire notices the growling in his stomach, Montparnasse coaxes Enjolras into twisting as he pencils from the diving board, turning himself in midair so that his back is to the rest of the pool as he goes down. And that’s all the diving progress he can get from Enjolras, but Grantaire notices the other differences: the new ease with which Enjolras climbs the ladder, the loosened tension as he curls his toes around the edge of the board. 

Montparnasse barks at him as he climbs to the high dive one last time, yelling something from below against which Enjolras doesn’t defend himself, but something to which he instead listens, absorbs. And then he runs off the board, flinging himself free of it and casting himself carelessly into the air like laundry in the wind.

After he lands stick-straight in the water, Montparnasse seems satisfied. He climbs down and snatches his jacket from the clock, leaving wordlessly. Enjolras watches him briefly, just his eyes breaching the pool and air bubbles surfacing around his cheeks before he tips himself backwards and floats like a deadman.

Grantaire is watching the way Enjolras disrupts the water’s refracted lines on the ceiling when Montparnasse emerges from the locker room.

“He told me that he once interrupted a back alley knife fight with his fists,” Montparnasse says, standing beside Grantaire, and following Grantaire’s gaze through the window. “And he’s afraid of doing tricks off of a goddamn diving board. Can you believe that - it’s a stationary plank of wood, for fuck’s sake.”

Grantaire watches him quietly; for some reason, the first words that Montparnasse has said to him in a week feel significant, like he should keep them for later.

“He’ll be fine,” Montparnasse concludes. “Jesus, I’m hungry.” He slips his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and turns his narrow eyes to Grantaire. “And I believe you and I are now even.”

“Did Jehan say anything to you?”

“That’s none of your business,” Montparnasse says and plucks his phone from his pocket to check it. “But a potted blue salvia may have mysteriously appeared on my doorstep.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “The flower that means ‘I think of you’?” 

Eyes still on his phone, Montparnasse nods.

“And like the blue salvias that only grow in abundance in the campus greenhouse?”

“Indeed.”

“The greenhouse where it’s prohibited to take flowers from it?”

“The very same.”

The corners of Grantaire’s lips quirk in a smile. “You might have a blooming felon on your hands.”

Montparnasse pockets his phone and turns away, but Grantaire catches the secret smile on his lips.

“I know,” he says.

 

Grantaire receives another letter from the university about his tuition increase; now, when he looks at his painting, he thinks the color of the water is all wrong.

 

Combeferre joins them for pumpkin-carving. Which is a weird thing, since it’s usually only Grantaire and Eponine with a hovering Montparnasse, but Montparnasse is busy with ‘undisclosed plans’, so Grantaire gets a warning text from Eponine and thinks this is an upgrade.

He comes home with bottles of their favorite seasonal apple wine and also a vinyl from their local vintage shop entitled ‘Halloween Fun & Frights’. Combeferre is already there and the apartment already glows orange and smells like the simmer pot on the stove. The living room furniture has been pushed to the walls and newspaper covers the floor - Combeferre stands in the middle of it all, in one square of visible rug, reading what seems to be the newspaper that belongs beneath him.

“What’re the headlines saying today?” Grantaire asks as he toes out of his boots.

“Not sure,” Combeferre says from behind the paper, voice nasally with his recovering illness. (“Not the flu, just a cold, in spite of the sudden vomiting,” Joly had informed them the practice after the meet. “He’ll be fully recovered in days if he sticks to the meds.”) “But the headlines last week were all about millennials and cooking.”

“That’s what we call a slow news week,” Grantaire says. “We still can’t cook, huh? Also I didn’t even know we had last week’s paper.” He unwinds his scarf from his neck and drapes it on the coat tree. After a moment’s thought, he leaves his beanie on; Combeferre has seen his wild, chlorine-ridden hair, but never with the two-day-shower-drought he has going on now.

“Still can’t cook,” Combeferre confirms. “And you didn’t. Eponine asked me to bring it over.”

On her cue, she emerges from the hallway, bringing with her a shoebox of pumpkin gut-crusted plastic tools and a couple of sharp knives. Her hair is drawn up into a loose bun and there are holes in the knees of her jeans - her socks are mismatched, but both are orange and halloween-themed.

Grantaire has a feeling that Combeferre had known about this plan a fair amount of time before he did.

“What’s that?” Eponine asks, catching sight of the vinyl as she passes to set the makeshift toolbox on the newspaper.

“I was getting sick of the Monster Mash,” Grantaire responds and wanders into the kitchen, setting the wine bottles on the counter. “Ferre, I hope you like apple wine,” he calls.

Combeferre does, indeed, like apple wine, but his medication keeps him at only one glass, which he nurses slowly throughout the night. They’re all crouched or cross-legged on the crumpling newspaper, gutting their pumpkins, and Combeferre eyes each of Grantaire’s wine glasses with a quiet longing - which leads Grantaire to believe that he doesn’t drink much at parties out of comradery for Enjolras. 

Whether he’s influenced more by the wine or the cold medicine is unclear, but Grantaire likes the new Combeferre; his smiles loosen and his eyes soften behind his round-lens glasses and when he looks at Grantaire, Grantaire doesn’t feel like he’s finding the worst things of him.

And he leans oddly close to Eponine to help her pluck a couple of stubborn seeds from the bottom of her short pumpkin.

Turns out, Grantaire’s new halloween vinyl is a bust, but it doesn’t matter when he’s also three glasses of wine down. “It’s about _atmosphere_ ,” he defends, gesturing with his orange, sticky hands towards the vague concept of ‘atmosphere’. “Vinyls are halloween-y, and so is the static, crinkly sounds that come with them.”

They dig through the carving templates stacked in the bottom of the box, most of the papers stiff and torn from being previously used. Combeferre picks a mildly challenging reaper, Eponine picks a moderately challenging graveyard, and Grantaire, the dumbass and show-off that he is, picks the expert-level werewolf.

“Art major,” both Eponine and Combeferre accuse simultaneously.

Art major or not, apple wine is delicious and alcoholic and tingles in his warm fingers and Grantaire knows he’s in trouble even as he tapes the template onto his pumpkin.

“So,” Eponine says as Grantaire chews on the blunt edge of his carving knife and tries to make sense of his werewolf’s fur, “Junior-Senior Wake-Up has to be soon, right?”

Combeferre laughs quietly. The sky outside has gone violet and velvet and they’re all squinting now in the dim lighting. “I’m not at liberty to say,” he says coyly.

“Get him another glass of wine,” Grantaire says. “Or another dose of cold medicine. I need to know if I should shower tonight.”

“You probably should,” Combeferre says and gives Grantaire a devious look from over the top of his pumpkin. “Just to be safe.”

Junior-Senior Wake-Up: the annual event in the swim season where the seniors wake up the juniors at an ungodly hour with poorly-made shirts and antics too loud for the morning and then take them out to breakfast. Grantaire has done his best to reckon with the truth that Enjolras will appear at their door some morning and see him at his absolute worse by telling himself that Enjolras has already seen him in some messy states.

(Though, of course, not the messy state he’d prefer. He takes another long sip of wine.)

“You already outnumber us,” Eponine tries reasonably, as Grantaire concentrates on the task of sawing out the werewolf’s eyes. “You could have a little heart and show us some mercy.”

Combeferre is unshakable. “All’s fair in love and breakfast at two AM.” He then straightens and plucks his phone from the pocket of his cardigan when it dings. “Enjolras is wondering if he can come over. He and Feuilly finished with the protest fliers early.”

From the kitchen, Eponine answers immediately, “Yes.”

Grantaire stands to get himself another drink, doing his best not to trip over the newspaper as he does.

Enjolras appears with his bobby-pinned bangs and a dead leaf clinging to the laces of his boots and his own, small pumpkin that he bought from the co-op on the way over.

(Grantaire takes a long drink.)

“I know you don’t care much about the tuition hike,” Enjolras says, right off the bat, and Grantaire scoffs quietly as Enjolras finds an open space of newspaper right beside him, “but could you look at these fliers? We need a design eye.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says intelligently.

“Jesus, is that a werewolf?” Enjolras says, leaning into Grantaire’s space from his cross-legged position at Grantaire’s side. “That’s impressive.”

“Sorry, Enj, we’re all a little inebriated,” Combeferre says, cleaning off the cut lines on his pumpkin.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Is it okay for you to drink on your cold medication?”

“I’m only having one glass,” Combeferre says regretfully, squinting as he leans in closer to his pumpkin. “Joly said I could have one when I told him there would be wine. But I was already a little sideways on cold medicine.”

“We have more,” Eponine inputs before Grantaire can follow up on that, can ask just how long Combeferre knew about this plan. “Or we have normal things, probably left over from the kick-off rager.”

“If you have a glass of wine, Eponine will ask you the date of the Wake-Up,” Combeferre warns, glasses sitting lower than usual on his nose.

“I’m going to ask him anyway.”

Grantaire feels like a lot is happening.

“I won’t tell you,” Enjolras says and slips out of his jacket. “But I will have a soda, if you’re offering.”

“I got it,” Grantaire says immediately and stands, grateful for the distraction. As he passes into the kitchen, he hears Enjolras make a comment about the music.

He stands with the refrigerator open longer than necessary, breathing in the cool air. He knows the wine has flushed high on his cheeks and has muddied his thoughts, but Enjolras would still be as devastating if he were sober. He last saw Enjolras floating face-up in the pool and he hasn’t prepared himself for this - he hasn’t showered in two days, for god’s sake. And now he’s on his fourth glass of wine. And the autumn wind has nipped Enjolras’ nose pink like it does, and purpled the beds of his nails.

Finally, when Grantaire doesn’t feel so feverish, he takes one of the sodas from the door and goes back.

A manilla folder sits in his place, and Enjolras has begun to gut his miniature pumpkin. Combeferre is setting up his finished pumpkin on the coffee table and Eponine cradles hers in her lap as she carves out the graves; a sense of domestic comfort settles in Grantaire for the moment, like they’re some sort of mismatched family. Where it’s okay that he doesn’t know what’s behind the looks that Eponine throws Combeferre or the proximity between his pumpkin and Enjolras. That it’s okay that everything between everyone seems to be in some sort of limbo because, somehow, it makes everything seem right.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says when Grantaire gives him the soda. He sets it on the newspaper, which soaks through immediately with condensation. “What do you think?” he then prompts, looking at the folder, and Grantaire’s not sure he’s ever heard him sound so hesitant.

Grantaire opens the folder in his lap. He tries to focus on the fliers inside and not the fact that Enjolras must not have been wearing socks with his boots, because now he’s barefoot, toes newly polished red and sitting distractingly close to Grantaire’s knee. 

The fliers - the fliers actually look really nice. Straight from the pop art era that Grantaire always liked but to which he never really connected. One of Feuilly’s doodles sits in the corner and from it extends a speech bubble that says, ‘TUITION RAISES, TUITION RIOTS!’ They’re all printed in black on paper of varying colors, from red to blue to hot pink, and the line weight is bold, shaded in halftone patterns, the punchy starburst lines making the poster look like it has teeth. Grantaire reads the protest information in the corner: Peaceful protest, Dean’s courtyard, Saturday November 10th, 12 PM.

“Damn,” he says dryly and closes the folder. “I was really looking forward to practice that day.”

He looks up and realizes that Enjolras has been watching him expectantly, leaning in close as if to guarantee he won’t miss any subtlety in Grantaire’s expression.

“I’m calling your bluff,” he says, unmoving and with vague irritation. “We’re starting practice earlier that morning.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Grantaire.”

“They look good,” Grantaire concedes with a mild shrug and sets the folder aside. He sips from his wine. “Not sure how the school will feel about a riot being promoted on campus, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“They don’t care about how the students feel about tuition raises,” Enjolras says heatedly, his gaze still fixed on Grantaire, posture turned more towards him now. He seems to have forgotten his pumpkin. “And they have no legal hold over the bulletins in the town. We’ll be handing them out on campus; if anti-abortionists can do it, so can we, and we even made a point to include the phrase ‘peaceful protest’ in the corner. The word ‘riot’ is more eye-catching - we need people’s attention. Everything we’ve tried before now hasn’t gotten it.”

“May I see them?” Combeferre asks cordially, his reaper pumpkin flickering with a tea light behind him.

Enjolras picks up the folder and offers it to Combeferre. “Courfeyrac is setting up the social media event pages and arranging a spot for us in the campus paper - he will make it very clear that this is to be peaceful. The only people who will turn it into a full-blown riot are the police.”

“And that may be exactly what they want,” Grantaire mumbles. Eponine leans in close to read the fliers.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “You think the campus police would instigate a riot?”

“Sure,” Eponine says and Grantaire points towards her in agreement as he takes a long drink of wine. “If you look unreasonable, it gives the school board an excuse to forgo formalities.”

“They’re already forgoing our formalities,” Enjolras says firmly. “We’re sending them letters daily and getting nothing.”

Grantaire blinks and has him stuck behind his eyes, their leader in red, climbing the marble statue in the courtyard and showing it the picture of true art.

“We will take precautions to make sure our side doesn’t show up looking for violence,” Combeferre says and sniffles. “We will keep the protest well-documented and transparent. But I think Enj is right - they’re ignoring our letters, so anything less than these fliers will get us nowhere. We need to be loud.”

“Will you be there?”

Grantaire doesn’t realize he’s being addressed; he hears Enjolras’ voice like light burning through the intoxicated fog in his head, but surely he’s talking to Combeferre or Eponine. He goes back to sawing out one of his werewolf’s fangs.

Then, after no one responds: “Grantaire, will you be there?”

Grantaire looks up, unsure of what his face looks like. Yes, he wants to say, I would follow you to the bottom of the ocean. No, he wants to say, you might destroy me like the sun destroyed Icarus. But his mouth suddenly feels like cotton and the alcohol in his blood reads his affection for Enjolras as dangerous as an infection - something to be combatted.

So he says, without tact, “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Enjolras counters, deep lines creasing on his brow. “I know you don’t care about this, even though it affects you - ”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Grantaire laughs, ugly, someone else. No, himself, but the parts that Enjolras likes to pretend don’t exist. “Of course I care that this shit excuse of an institution is taking more of my money, burying me in debt before I even have a job. I just have an utter lack of faith that anything we do will change their mind.”

“R,” Eponine says sharply, only to be smothered by Enjolras’ response.

“So you just do nothing?” he snaps.

“Yes!” Grantaire says, still laughing. “You always ask me that and the answer is always yes! Why should I waste my time trying to reason with people who won’t listen - ”

“Yes,” Enjolras says thinly, “why waste your time trying when you can waste your time with the bottle?”

“Hey!” Eponine snaps just as Combeferre gives a warning, “Enj, enough.”

Grantaire feels like something has slipped out from inside him, like a tablecloth from beneath dishware. But sloppily done, where the plates and the glasses go with it, all into the air and then all onto the floor: from whole to pieces.

He laughs again, drops his plastic saw and stands. He should learn to love that disappointment; hell, he’s already embraced his innate ability to let Enjolras down whenever he is able. “Fine,” he says, grinning as he crouches to pick up his glass of wine. Enjolras watches him, head tipped back and face turned upwards to meet him, expression hard. “Fine, I’ll be there, I’ll bring the booze.”

He leaves a commotion behind him. Combeferre, Eponine, Enjolras all have their response but he hears none of them as he goes to his room and shuts himself inside. He doesn’t bother turning on the light, not with his canvas still sitting on the easel - he can see its shape anyway, standing close to the window like a nightmare silhouette hiding in the dark. He kicks his clothes out of the way as he goes to turn on his speakers; he doesn’t want to hear how the night in the living room ends.

He lies on his bed in the dark, wine cradled on his stomach. In the soft guitar riffs and sandpaper vocals, he inappropriately imagines that Enjolras follows him, rekindles their argument, stokes their fire until it grows too large for words and ends with Enjolras on top of him, pinning, biting, taking - taking.

Instead, Eponine texts him, the light of his phone screen bright in his room: ‘giving you a few minutes. lmk if i should come in. otherwise i’ll stop by when they leave.’

Grantaire squints to read it, props himself up to finish his wine, and then falls back down with his eyes closed, feeling like an ass.

 

He wakes with Eponine in his arms and no memory of her getting there. His bedroom is still dark and he knows it’s Monday, but he catches a glimpse of his clock from over her head and it only says 5:51. He sighs and pulls her close, pressing his nose to her hair and breathing in the familiar smell of her spice shampoo and chlorine, and closes his eyes again.

(He moves as little as possible, sensing the threat of a looming headache like prey senses its predator.)

The next time he wakes, the things in his room sit in the cold, pale morning, and he realizes that he left his speakers on all night. The clock tells him 7:11 - nineteen minutes before his alarm is to go off, and Eponine is tracing delicate circles across his back.

“That was pretty ugly last night,” she tells him softly, and Grantaire feels her breath on his collar.

“I know,” Grantaire mumbles and winces with the taste of his breath. His headache hears him and pounces, catches his entire skull in its jaws. “Sorry.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. But say your piece. I know you have one.”

“My piece will be a lot more eloquent after coffee.”

“Then hold it.”

“No,” Eponine sighs. “No, here it is, you should hear it now.”

She pauses and Grantaire waits. He eyes the canvas on the easel, its colors softened in the morning’s sleepy light. The music drifts quietly around them and fits itself into the slow rhythm of Eponine’s breathing - or maybe it’s visa versa. He waits, steeping in the gentle morning that’s followed such a sharp night, reaching through his headache to simply appreciate Eponine’s warmth and familiarity.

“Enjolras had no right to say what he did about your drinking,” Eponine finally murmurs.

The morning pushes the next few words from his mouth, stumbling, “But he’s right.”

Eponine stirs. Grantaire shivers, cold on top of his bed sheets as she untangles herself from him and crouches at his side. Last night’s wine has stained her cheeks pink and her bangs hang in pieces over her forehead as she watches him intently. Her gaze is abnormally clear for the hour.

“That is the first honest and negative thing you’ve said about your drinking,” she says honestly, seriously - too honestly, too seriously. Grantaire sighs and closes his eyes when she brushes his hair from his eyes. “Do you want me to help you get sober?”

Grantaire laughs hollowly. “Stop treating me like a case study,” he murmurs.

“I’m treating you like a friend,” she says, insulted. She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her palms and sets her hands in her lap. “Admission is a sign of wanting help - ”

“I just want to be the person he thinks I can be,” Grantaire confesses quietly before he closes his eyes again. He wills himself to drown in the pounding tides of his hangover.

Eponine is quiet; her knees rest gently against Grantaire’s side. Grantaire draws in a slow, deep breath; the words have finally left him, have finally taken a life of their own, but they don’t go far. They settle like stones on his chest, bearing a truth he has been able to ignore until now. There is another world somewhere, one where he’s better and can answer Enjolras’ questions without starting an argument, where Enjolras turns to Grantaire when he needs someone reliable and useful -

A world where Enjolras’ blue eyes or bright smile or thin mouth are enough to make Grantaire change.

“He thinks more of you than you think,” Eponine finally says quietly. “You as you are now. Combeferre and I talked about it - ”

“Yeah, what _is_ going on with you and Combeferre?”

Eponine shakes her head and pushes at Grantaire’s side. “No, we’ll talk about that later,” she says firmly, wise to Grantaire’s diversion tactics. “You told me to say my piece, so here it is. He doesn’t wish you were someone else, someone better. He just doesn’t understand you, or some of the things you do. He doesn’t get how much effort it takes for you to just keep up with him - he doesn’t get that, for better or for worse, drinking has become a coping mechanism. Drinking and napping. You know how superhuman he can be. He forgets that not everyone has a mile-long to-do list every day. He forgets that not everyone can live like he does.”

Eponine sighs, unsatisfied, and scrubs her palm over her cheek. “But - ” she continues, fighting with the ineloquence of an hour before eight. “He doesn’t want you to change, he doesn’t expect you to. Combeferre says that, more than anything, you confuse him. He cares about you and what you have to say; you saw him watching you while you looked at those fliers. And he doesn’t get why you provoke him all the time. It’s because you want his attention, right?” When Grantaire doesn’t respond, she specifies, “This entire conversation doesn’t leave this room.”

“Yes,” Grantaire simply mumbles. It sounds less pathetic than him not being able to deal with anything softer than Enjolras’ anger and dimmer than his approval.

“Well, R, you have it,” Eponine says in conclusion. “I don’t know the best thing to do here, but you do have his attention. You don’t have to fight for it.”

Grantaire is stuck on ‘superhuman’: he lies there, in yesterday’s clothes, with his chapped lips and itchy knuckles, dried out from the autumn air - and thinks of what Montparnasse told him, about Enjolras diving into a back alley knife fight. ‘Superhuman’: swimming the butterfly, piles of things in the backseat of a car, red nail polish -

Standing on top of the high dive, knowing that it’s the very thing that almost killed him once.

Eponine’s fingers work through his bangs slowly. “I’m going to make coffee,” she murmurs and then gives Grantaire’s cheek a pat. “Come out in five.”

Grantaire does take his allotted five minutes. He stares across the room at his painting and wonders why he’s so drawn to the most vulnerable part of Enjolras, as much as he’s drawn to the strongest. He barely reaches a conclusion before he realizes that he hasn’t given Enjolras a reflection in the water.

(It’s all too much for 7:30 AM.)

When he comes out for coffee, he sees his werewolf, finished and sitting beside Eponine’s graveyard pumpkin.

“Enjolras finished it,” she says, without looking up from her laptop.

 

After Eponine leaves, he spends a sizeable amount of time looking over the details of the pieces that Enjolras cut out, seeing where he didn’t quite adhere to the guides, where his lines are noticeably jagged. The werewolf’s fangs look like snaggled teeth.

It’s imperfect, clearly a collaboration between two different people who are often at odds, but Grantaire has always had a thing for the inconsistency in a brush stroke, for the accidental tilt a pencil line takes when it becomes too enthusiastic.

 

Enjolras leans against the outside of the language hall, sunglasses reflecting the October sun and peacoat open with its hem nodding along to the wind, tapping against the thighs of his ripped jeans.

(He’s devastating, is what Grantaire is getting at. Flooring and stunning, even when he’s standing outside the minute after class starts - wait.)

“Skip class with me,” he says when Grantaire is close enough. It’s not the first thing he expects Enjolras to say to him after his tipsy exit from last night, and it must show on his face, just how ill-equipped he is to respond. “Courfeyrac is working a double shift at the newspaper and forgot his lunch. I told him I’d bring it to him, and haven’t had a chance to yet.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows and glances at the brick above Enjolras’ head so that he doesn’t have to watch his own reflection in his sunglasses. “Delivering lunch is a two-person job? That takes up an hour and a half?”

Enjolras’ eyebrows lift over the red frames of his sunglasses. “Do you _want_ to go to class?” he asks blandly. 

He’s ignoring the real problem Grantaire is having with this situation, but not even Grantaire can argue with his logic.

“Besides,” Enjolras adds, quieter as they both fit their hands into his pockets and follow the cobblestone away from the building, “my mother told me that a day off every once in awhile is necessary.”

Grantaire, squinting because he’d left his sunglasses on the counter with the disbelief that October would give them another day of true sunlight, looks sideways at Enjolras. Enjolras walks everywhere with purpose, with his head held high and expression set like god himself couldn’t stand in his way - Grantaire thinks he sees even the sunbeams parting for him like hair to a comb. 

His words are much the same; small talk is not in Enjolras’ repertoire, no matter how awkward the situation, so there has to be a reason he brings up his mother now.

“Your mother is French, right?” Grantaire asks, hopefully helpfully. Students fill the patches of grass across the campus, cross-legged and reclined and in t-shirts to embrace what is almost certainly the year’s last brilliant day.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “Believe it or not, I’ve had a habit of overworking myself ever since I was young.”

“No,” Grantaire says, deadpan.

Enjolras smiles in the corners of his lips. The bobby pins sit further back in his hair today, closer to his hair binder. His bangs take advantage, catching the breeze and capering on the top rim of his sunglasses. “Sometimes it was school work. Sometimes it was for diving or the school newspaper or volunteer work. I learned early that overworking myself was the fastest and sometimes only way to get results.”

Grantaire walks closer without meaning to, drawn in with Enjolras unearthing these things from his past and offering them to Grantaire. Their elbows bump as they cross campus, the empty tree branches casting shadows like cracks onto their heads.

“In high school, I finally worked myself sick,” Enjolras continues. “I didn’t sleep for three days straight. When my mother found out, she started making me take a day off of class every few months - she knew I wouldn’t take a break from anything else, so she did the best she could.”

They aren’t the only ones skipping class. Laughter and chatter blanket the commons like dandelions do in the summer, the pallid grass hidden almost entirely beneath students and towels and books. The campus is alive, vibrant in the crisp afternoon, drawn from the bright parts of autumn that taste like a sweet apple. 

Bahorel waves at them from where he sits on top of a cooler, surrounded by a group that sits on towels. Montparnasse and Babet have claimed a patch of grass close to the sidewalks, with Babet lying on his stomach and Montparnasse reclined on Babet’s back. They’re both engrossed in their own book, together but not, their clothes a mass of varying black fabrics.

Enjolras and Grantaire turn onto one of the campus’ old stone paths. “I lose myself when I’m focused,” Enjolras says quietly, as the journalism building dawns on the horizon. Behind them, the commotion from the commons sounds like the ocean in a shell. “But that’s still no excuse for what I said about your drinking, and I apologize.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras goes on before he can respond. “I understand that everyone has their way of dealing with things. I just - ” through the teeth now, the frustration taut, “ - I wish I knew how to get through to you.”

And what could Grantaire ever say to that.

 

The journalism building is one of the newer on campus, with its tall windows and domed ceiling that makes the winding hallways feel more like paths in an atrium; a steel sculpture of the world pieced into ribbons stands tall just beyond the doorway. The newsroom is at the center of it all, adorned with desks that follow its circular walls, mirroring professional standards with its wheeled chairs and big-screened computers and projectors - it’s suited more for a city than a fairly quiet college campus.

Courfeyrac runs the newsroom like he’s got strings knotted to his fingers and everyone at their ends. They catch him as he’s making his way around the outermost level of desks, incessantly clicking a pen in one hand and drinking a soda with the other, nodding his agreement to various comments thrown his way. (“The column on arts page four is too short - I’m going to use a house ad,” and, “Is it kosher to include the word ‘legit’ in a subhead?”) 

Among the undercurrent of rhythmic typing, Courfeyrac spots them from across the room, mid-drink, and acknowledges them by raising his eyebrows.

“Oh god, Enjolras, you’re doing god’s work, bless you,” he says once he’s crossed the room to their side. He tucks the pen behind his ear and grins at them. “And you brought a wild R, I’m so happy that you both prioritize my appetite over French cinema.”

“You need to eat,” Enjolras says as he pulls Courfeyrac’s lunch bag from his backpack. His sunglasses now sit on top of his hair.

“We would just be discussing shaky cam and jump cuts in new wave French film, so of course I’d rather come talk with you,” Grantaire says easily, like, moments ago, Enjolras hadn’t just rendered him speechless with a sentence.

“Ah, bless you both. This soda is the only thing that’s been keeping me from the hunger shakes,” Courfeyrac says and takes his lunch bag. He wears his press badge around his neck even in the newsroom, its chain tucked beneath the collar of his plaid button-down. “Hey, listen, I’m going to devour this before my stomach devours me, but really quickly, the director approved the tuition protest flier to run on its own page.”

Enjolras grins and his eyes brighten, sparked with excitement. “Courf, that’s great. Bahorel and I will be handing out fliers tomorrow.”

“I know, so we’ll have a full page every day until the date. Perfect, huh? Right in the arts section.”

“It is perfect, nice work,” Enjolras says and hugs him, pulls him close enough so that Courfeyrac can bury his face briefly in Enjolras’ shoulder. It doesn’t last long - someone says Courfeyrac’s name from across the room and he’s gone in a moment, leaving behind him a trail of sincere thank you’s and the clicking of his pen.

Grantaire follows Enjolras out of the building. The large clock that hangs above the door points its iron hands to 3:50 - they’ve only missed twenty minutes of class, and Enjolras’ words are stuck in his head, looping like his favorite song or a truth that he never wanted to hear. 

How can he tell Enjolras that Enjolras _has_ gotten through to him, that he’s buried himself so deep inside of Grantaire that Grantaire feels him in his blood. That he is always there, in Grantaire’s most vulnerable moments, in his most triumphant. How the fuck does he tell Enjolras that he has spent the last three years orienting himself in accordance to Enjolras, that he’s made Enjolras his North and everything else just falls into place?

Enjolras turns to him outside, drops his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose, and has no idea that his words _are_ the only ones that Grantaire hears, the only ones that feel more like sticks and stones.

“Do you have any plans before practice?” Enjolras asks him quietly.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No. Want to go to the greenhouse?”

It feels strange to ask Enjolras to do something so mundane. Enjolras, who is always looking for ways to change the world, who always finds the small threads that will bring a castle to the ground when he pulls them. Surely he has better things to do than to look at plants.

But Enjolras just looks surprised, a naked astonishment that Grantaire reads even through his sunglasses.

“Sure,” Enjolras finally responds. “I didn’t think you’d want to do anything.”

“Look,” Grantaire sighs and turns away, heading back down the cobblestone walkway. He closes his eyes to compose himself, the sun beaming warm over his cheeks and coloring the insides of his eyes red. “Look, if that’s about last night, I could have handled it better, too. Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, yeah?”

He knows this will leave Enjolras unsatisfied. Loose ends and unanswered questions and untouched discussions are migraines for people like Enjolras, but it’s the best Grantaire can do for now. He can’t tell Enjolras what he really wants to hear, that, yes, he will absolutely be at that protest, so this will have to do.

He opens his eyes and finds Enjolras in step beside him. Graciously, though not without obvious restraint, Enjolras agrees. “All right.”

“Thanks by the way,” Grantaire says, and goes out of his way to step on a stray leaf, just to hear it crunch. “The werewolf looks vicious and scary.”

 

They stop at Feuilly’s cafe for a coffee on the way (Feuilly “accidentally” gives them both a large instead of the mediums they order), and they hold their coffee cups close as they wander down the greenhouse’s overgrown paths. 

Enjolras fits in with the plants as well as he fits in with water. The leaves reach for him as he passes, and the flowers seem to neglect their sun to turn towards him. Most students have taken to the cloudless outdoors, so they’re relatively alone and Enjolras takes his time when he crouches to greet the lucky plants that catch his eye.

When he stops by the blue salvias, Grantaire finally asks him. “How’d your meeting with Montparnasse go?”

The air smells like fertilizer and the rain of a world Grantaire will never know; the sun stretches through the glass ceiling and the holes in the leaves above to cast freckles on Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Well, I think,” Enjolras says quietly, gazing at the tall stalks. “He would never be my first pick for a coach, but he understands what it’s like to take a leap you’ve done countless times and fall. And in a way, having someone aggressively yell at me for my hesitations was productive. He was confident that I had nothing to fear, and so I was confident that I had nothing to fear.”

Enjolras sips from his coffee and stares at the flowers; Grantaire sips from his coffee and stares at Enjolras.

“If you just needed someone to yell at you, you could have said so,” he mutters.

Enjolras finally looks at him, pale and bitten lips curved in a soft smile. The moment between them is gentle, framed in curious flowers and the warmest sunspots, and Grantaire’s imagination runs. 

He lets it, just for a moment, to Enjolras’ soft cheek in his palm and the subtle slope of his nose traced under his thumb. To a careful step forward, jacket lapels rustling as they brush - to, finally, the perfect moment; the press of his lips to Enjolras’, the feeling that he is exactly where he is meant to be in this moment.

But all he holds in his hands is his cup of coffee.

As picture-perfect as this moment seems, shot through a rose-colored lens, Grantaire knows he’s never been cast for the stories where that sort of thing happens.

“You and I aren’t very productive when we yell at each other,” Enjolras says and Grantaire entertains the notion that he hears nostalgia in his wry voice.

“Productive yelling,” Grantaire says. “I’ll work on that. Any other flaws I should fix?”

Enjolras’ smile breaks and Grantaire immediate regrets it.

“Don’t answer that,” he says, as easily as he can manage, before he steps past Enjolras and leads them from the blue salvias. Maybe if they looked hard enough, they’d find the hole where another salvia used to grow, the overturned earth in the wake of Jehan’s theft.

Their steps are slow and aimless as they continue on. Enjolras drifts between the two sides of the path like a ghost and Grantaire follows. He feels responsible for the frown carved into Enjolras’ mouth, so deep that it resurrects a pair of dimples close to the corners of his lips.

“You paint, right?” Enjolras asks quietly, as he lingers over a bed of sunset-red flowers.

“Sometimes,” Grantaire says and sips from his coffee.

“I saw your work in the fine arts building,” Enjolras murmurs and Grantaire becomes abruptly interested in the stones beneath his feet, their erratic edges and the ways they slot together, creating perfect lines of dirt between them. “Your cafe piece - it’s fantastic, Grantaire.”

One Wednesday afternoon, Grantaire skipped class to nap, but, in a bout of insomnia, instead decided to go to sit at an outdoor cafe on campus. Over his americano, he had sketched everyone who walked by from the waist down, catching the creases in their pants and the flow of their skirts and the lines of their heels from over the top of his table. Then, when he had to turn in a painting two days later, he slapped them all together with improvised shadows and his professor thought it stunning enough to hang in the fine arts gallery.

“Thanks,” he says and turns to stare at the knots on the closest tree trunk.

“Why did you choose graphic design over painting?”

Grantaire shrugs. “There’s more of a market for it. Have to find a way to pay off that student debt. Somehow.”

Grantaire mentally buries himself for returning to that topic of conversation, especially when Enjolras straightens and turns towards him, looming in his peripheral. 

But Enjolras doesn’t take the bait. “The product of a society that promotes the sciences above the arts,” he says, like he’s speaking of a grudge he’s been holding for years. “I don’t think you should quit painting. You obviously need to make a living, but I hope you never give it up.”

Grantaire sips from his coffee and pretends those words don’t swell in his chest. “Why were you at the FAB anyway?”

“Art is a crucial form of public expression. I take every chance I can to learn from it.”

“Of course you do,” Grantaire says quietly and manages to look at Enjolras again before he leads them on. “Have you ever tried it? Drawing, painting, sculpture, anything?”

Enjolras scoffs. “Yes, I’ve tried most of them and then promptly quit,” he says. “I know practice makes perfect, but it’s hard to make gold out of dirt. I have more of a talent for music.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Piano?” he guesses. 

“Choir and violin.”

Grantaire pretends like this doesn’t swell in his chest, too. “So, why polisci? I can’t imagine you as a politician, you’re too moral.”

“I do what’s necessary; in a climate like this one, sometimes morals come second,” Enjolras says quietly, and he wears the sentiment well. “The trick is not to lose track of what you’re there to do. You have to have the conviction. I plan to start as a political analyst; it’ll arm me with the tools that I’ll need in protests and other methods of political assembly. Both to achieve the maximum output, and to keep everyone in attendance safe.”

He wears this sentiment even better. They’re nearing the greenhouse exit and Enjolras stops them beside a colony of succulents, lashes fanned above his cheeks as he stares down at them. He traces the lip of his cup with his index finger, lost in thoughts so bright that Grantaire can feel their warmth - dangerous and compassionate all at once, a blaze in all the right places and relenting in others. A carefully and perfectly crafted wildfire.

Grantaire has never once thought Enjolras would fail in achieving any goal he’s set for himself.

“What about swimming?” Grantaire asks. “Or diving? You could do the olympics.”

Enjolras barely reacts to that. “They’ll always be a hobby,” he says distantly. “There will always be things that are more important.”

Though he can’t put it into words, Grantaire feels like he’s realized why he never painted Enjolras’ reflection in the pool water.

 

In the last meet for October, Grantaire places first in his varsity heat of the 100 backstroke.

Enjolras hugs him again, pulls him from the middle of his heart-pounding and electric celebration and wraps him in his arms, envelops him and plants his hand in Grantaire’s wet hair.

It’s incredible, really, Enjolras’ talent for silencing the worlds, both outside and inside of Grantaire.

And Grantaire, with his adrenaline-buzzed fingertips and roaring blood, holds Enjolras in return. With his face buried in Enjolras’ warm shoulder and hand resting on the back of Enjolras’ neck with a devastating ease. 

 

Grantaire wakes with the unceremonious thump of his door hitting the wall (followed by Courfeyrac’s apologetic, “Dicks, my bad”), and it begins.

“Rise and shine, R Grantaire, today is your lucky day!” comes a chorus just as a weight drops onto Grantaire’s bed, elbows and knees right onto Grantaire’s side and hair tickling his cheeks and Bahorel’s laugh close to his ear.

Someone turns on the overhead light and Grantaire groans from under his covers, hoarse and stale-breathed. Bahorel bounces on top of him and the commotion fills his room like white noise; he’s still unearthing himself from his dream, one foot stuck in the mud of another life, distant yet so close.

What realigns him, worse than any alarm, is the collision of two things, a fusion that blossoms violently inside of Grantaire and douses him in a cold sweat: the soft sound of Enjolras’ voice, an undercurrent to the noise, and the realization that his painting of Enjolras is still propped up on his easel.

“There he is,” Bahorel says complacently once Grantaire peeks out from beneath the blankets, and he pats his cheek affectionately. “Up and at ‘em, we made you a shirt.”

Grantaire tries not to make it obvious when he looks past Combeferre, who is holding his tie-dyed and sloppily painted shirt, right at Enjolras, who is standing perfectly in front of his easel. It can’t be coincidence - he’s blocking it from the rest of the room.

Grantaire’s heart beats so wildly he thinks he might choke on it. His head races past each of his thoughts until he can only focus on the mixed look in Enjolras’ tired eyes and the distracted smile on his mouth, and, maybe, the barely-there blush on his cheeks.

The rest of the Junior-Senior Wake-Up passes in that warped way that only comes when he’s distracted by his own monumental thought. He barely registers that Eponine is standing in his doorway, already dressed in her own disastrous shirt and leather jacket and she must have let them into their apartment without thinking to first warn Grantaire. (Though Grantaire can’t be sure he would have remembered to hide the painting, even with sufficient notice.)

He won’t remember Courfeyrac’s fussing as Jehan, with his own unique shirt, tries to climb into Grantaire’s bed for a “nap” (“We’ve been up way longer than you!”) and Musichetta braiding Eponine’s long hair into a french braid as they wait for Grantaire to dress. He won’t remember the cheers once he’s ready or the retaliating stomps from their neighbors above; he won’t remember how he almost forgot his beanie, how Combeferre graciously handed it to him from the coat tree.

He’ll instead remember how Enjolras trailed behind their makeshift herd, followed their hushed chaos when he would normally be the one to lead it. He will remember the small tears in the knees of Enjolras’ jeans, the hood of his navy sweatshirt sticking out from beneath his collared peacoat, and the knot of his left boot being tighter than the right.

He’ll remember the unusual miles in Enjolras’ gaze, the way he’s not quite present in the moment, either.

They take three cars to the diner; Grantaire isn’t sure if he means to end up in Enjolras’ (cleaned) back seat, but he does. Pressed to the driver-side door and his thigh resting against Jehan’s, he meets Enjolras’ gaze in the rearview mirror at every stoplight.

The night sky is starless, gaping and deep, perfect for the fog that has settled in the air and the orange street lights that burn through it. The late autumn wind finds its way through Grantaire’s jacket and so he’s grateful for the shelter of the diner, though the inside adorns white and neon lights that crack him like porcelain. 

He won’t remember how the wait staff seemed ready for them, giving them the four tables prematurely pushed together in front of the window. He will remember how he sat down first, and Enjolras chose to sit across from him.

He won’t remember the checkered tile on the tables or the splash of Bossuet’s tea across it. He will remember that Enjolras put two sugars and one cream in his coffee.

And he won’t remember how they put onions in his omelette even though he asked them not to, or Joly not understanding how a sticky bun is different from a caramel roll, or how they all laugh so loudly that it rings in his ears.

But he will remember the accidental and clumsy bumps of Enjolras’ shoes against his - the intentional look in Enjolras’ eyes whenever their gazes meet, like he has something he needs to say.

 

And then, Grantaire wakes in the passenger’s seat of Enjolras’ car.

Back to real time, through eyes influenced only by exhaustion, the fog outside is lifting and the night is thinning, aging to morning, and the clock on Enjolras’ dashboard says 5:58. Their French film screening is in thirty minutes.

The back seat of Enjolras’ car is empty - of people, of things - and somewhere along the way, they’ve agreed to stop for more coffee before going to their class. The headlights throw dark shadows onto bushes and the cracks in the pavement as Enjolras exits the parking lot behind Bossuet’s now over-packed van. Grantaire sits stiffly, eyeing the diner in the side mirror.

Measures of piano fill the air between them, exhaled from the radio like smoke. The road hums softly beneath the tires as Enjolras drives and Grantaire thinks he could fall asleep to it all, were it not for the consuming thought that Enjolras has seen himself on one of Grantaire’s canvases.

“You drew the short stick, didn’t you?” Grantaire eventually asks to fill the silence. “I bet a lot of them can go back home and sleep. We have to go try to stay awake for a film.”

“We chose Friday because it’s the most equally-taxing day for everyone,” Enjolras murmurs. “No one can go back and sleep, unless they skip class.”

“Right.”

(Yes, Grantaire does tire of always saying the wrong thing.)

“Why did you paint me on the diving board?” Enjolras finally asks, the words soft and careful, not at all like he’s been dying to ask them. But, more than anything, he sounds curious.

There are so many things Grantaire can say here, and, even with his fraying head, he thinks of them all. There are walls he can build, lies he can weave about an inspiring composition or a perfect color palette or simply needing perspective practice. 

He stares through the windshield for so long that Bossuet’s tail lights burn spots into his eyes; he goes through them all, excuse after excuse that could protect him. He weighs them all on his tongue, tastes them to see which is the most right for the drowsy morning.

But the car is quiet and still smells of peppermint and dawn is showing itself honest and content as it settles through the sunroof and in Enjolras’ hair. And Enjolras’ hand sits on the gearshift and, only minutes before, his knees had bumped Grantaire’s beneath the diner table and his waffle had left a smear of whipped cream in the corner of his mouth, just long enough for Grantaire to see.

And, a year from now, Enjolras will be gone.

“Because I found magnitudes in that moment,” Grantaire says quietly, exposed.

Ahead of them, Bossuet turns right; Enjolras turns left.

“Magnitudes?” he presses, barely loud enough to be heard over the piano.

“Jesus, you want to kill me, don’t you?” Grantaire says, half on a laugh, the only defense he can manage. He pushes his beanie off so that he can rake his fingers through his nest of hair. “I knew the second that I walked into the pool that it was an important moment for you. I didn’t know how, and you didn’t have to say anything, but I could feel it. And sorry if I’ve overstepped by putting your personal moment on canvas - no one was supposed to see it, and you looked so good up there, it just stuck in my head. Like a song you can’t forget, you know.”

Enjolras says nothing.

Grantaire tips his head back against the seat, resigned as he waits for the storm to begin to inside him. But it never comes. He expects the cuts he’d make to the words he just spoke, the edits that wouldn’t leave him so vulnerable, then the abrupt damage control; what is the best way to save himself if this goes wrong?

But there’s nothing. No regrets, no failsafe in place - just a stillness, inside and out.

“No one has ever seen me on the board after practice,” Enjolras finally says, quiet. “I once told Combeferre that I was going to start staying after for diving, and somehow, the team knew after that to give me my space after practice.”

Grantaire laughs quietly and sets his elbow on the door, then his chin in his hand. The architecture changes as they work their way into the campus: apartment complexes with iron-barred balconies and duplexes with plank siding, to brick buildings with door steps and lecture halls with circular courtyards. Everyone who’s awake looks not quite alive, translucent in the dim hour.

“And then there’s this asshole,” he says. “Who can’t take a hint and busts in on one of your most private moments because I forgot my fucking water bottle.”

“I didn’t mind,” Enjolras admits. “Honestly, I was a little relieved. It felt like finally telling a secret that I’d kept for too long.”

Grantaire’s throat goes dry.

Enjolras pulls into the coffee shop parking lot at 6:11, when the piano has turned to violin strings. He parks close to the curb and his keys jingle when he kills the engine, keychains of various causes knocking against the charms that Feuilly has printed.

“Will you stay after with me tomorrow?” he asks in the stillness that follows. The dawning light sits on his cheekbones, lining the wear in the shadows beneath his eyes. “I think I’m close to a breakthrough, but I can’t be sure.”

Grantaire’s answer is immediate, “Yes.”

Enjolras looks at him then, his car keys hanging from his index finger. He looks at him with his entirety, turning in his seat to watch Grantaire from over the center console. He looks young, blue eyes pallid and the day too new for the lines that usually sit on his brow. His blond hair is unpinned, barely keeping to his hair binder. 

Grantaire finds himself nearly stupid in the morning, nearly unwilling to fight his urge to brush the stray curls from Enjolras’ eyes.

“Is the painting finished?” he asks.

Grantaire straightens in his seat, caught between wanting to get out and wanting to stay with Enjolras in the distractingly empty car. “No, probably not.”

“Can I see it when it is?”

If he hadn’t previously known Enjolras was no artist, he would for sure know now. His art is never done, he’s only ever considered a piece “finished” because he was either sick of it, or on a deadline.

But with Enjolras staring at him, he simply nods and answers with a soft, “Sure.”

 

Saturday morning brings the year’s first frost. It coats the grass white in the dark, glistening in the warm street lamps outside the pool, and Grantaire allows himself a moment to appreciate it before he hauls himself inside.

“It’s appropriate,” Eponine says, her words forming clouds in front of her mouth. “Halloween is tomorrow.”

(Sunday: the most unhalloween day ever.)

Grantaire spends his practice entertaining the notion that he and Enjolras have a secret. They catch gazes from across the lanes, both red-cheeked and breathless and Grantaire feels like things are different, something more, like they’re both hiding the scars of a new blood pact.

(He watches the ceiling tiles pass as he swims and wonders when he became such an optimist.)

 

Grantaire sits on the top rung of the ladder. He’s not exactly sure of what he’s doing here - all he knows is that Enjolras asked him to be here, and so here he is.

(He dwells on that a bit.)

Enjolras, standing high on the diving board, looks even more severe from this vantage point. The long lines of his legs and arms are even more dramatic, appropriate for thick charcoal lines if Grantaire were to put them on paper.

Water trails between the edge of the pool and the diving board, to where Enjolras left his towel hanging on the ladder after his first several dives. Grantaire has sat quietly through them all, their splashes creating tides that ebb into his lap. 

He’s admittedly growing impatient, Enjolras’ unceremonious twists and experimental shapes not at all worth the couple of minutes of mental preparation that Enjolras does on top of the board. He’s still unsure of what exactly he’s doing here and comments surface in his mouth, both helpful and unhelpful, but he keeps them to himself. He blindly skims his fingertips across the water to give himself something to do.

Enjolras takes longer for this one. Grantaire watches on baited breath - what as it Einstein said about madness? Repeating an action and hoping for a different outcome. It’s not that he’s discouraged with Enjolras and he’s well-versed in the trial of mental blocks. It’s that these small tricks are unbecoming for someone like Enjolras; small steps of progress don’t fit him. Not with his lionheart, his willpower that not only triumphs, but devours.

From below, Grantaire sees Enjolras close his eyes. The empty room feels attentive, even the walls and empty seats and lane lines all watching, waiting. Grantaire’s heart quiets to follow suit but he still feels its drum in his head.

Inhale slowly - Enjolras’ chest rises; exhale slowly - it deflates.

(Inhale slowly - Grantaire’s chest rises; exhale slowly - it deflates.)

Then, Enjolras leaps.

Into the afternoon sun, the light prisms around his movements, his tuck as he pulls himself into a simple front flip. He splits the water’s reflection on the wall and creates new, momentary shadows over the wall, the sunlight blinking as if he is the one too bright to look at.

It’s perfect, not at all clumsy: his legs bent to his chest at his peak, his hands fitted in the angle beneath his knees and he suspends, exalted, the daylight savoring his turning point, his revelation. And then, a knot untying itself: he drops head-first into the water, arms extended below him, legs straight and toes pointed. Barely a splash.

All that’s left of the moment is the bristling water, shuddering around where Enjolras entered.

Grantaire screams and launches himself into the pool.

The next several moments run like neon, buzzing and hot and dizzying, stardust in his fingertips. He goes under the water and surfaces with Enjolras, who is beaming, bright and flushed as he catches his breath, wide eyes and tangled hair and laughter.

Strings of words, legs working to tread the water - a happiness that can’t be defined, elation like the sunlight that fills the whole room.

Water sloshes around their collar bones - they’re splashing clumsily in their excitement and Grantaire has just seen something so incredible that he’ll never be able to take it to paper, he knows that, it’s okay.

Heaving breath, more echoing laughter, hands grabbing - 

Enjolras’ fingers fitted to the back of Grantaire’s neck, Grantaire’s ankle bumping Enjolras’ as they kick. Two chlorine mouths, pressed together.

They kiss through the rest of the supernova moment, white noise in Grantaire’s head in the wake of Enjolras’ warm lips and wet fingers holding his jaw. Grantaire’s hands find home on Enjolras’ ribs, fingers spread and slotted between them, and he tastes the pool water on Enjolras’ tongue. Kissing so hard their teeth press against their lips, taking, both of them taking, and Grantaire’s bangs stick to his forehead, but he’s breathless and Enjolras is relentless, vicious, and so Grantaire holds onto him. He damns even the water in the spaces between them.

Grantaire’s legs ache when they part. He comes back to himself in pieces - first the ache, last his breath. Enjolras stays close, still holding his jaw and watching him, the smile on his face caught in a limbo, half there and half not, and, slowly, Grantaire knows why. His heart now pounds for an entirely different reason and his fingers go stiff on Enjolras’ sides.

What is left of them, now that their hot moment is gone?

“I apologize,” Enjolras finally says, breathless, and drops his hands into the water. As he treads, the gap between them grows. “That was so inappropriate. I lost my head.”

Grantaire clears his throat and feels like a cavity.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he says when he wants to pull Enjolras back, wants to show him just how okay it is. “No - that was. Nice work, fantastic. On the flip.”

As if reminded of it, Enjolras smiles again. “I still have a long way to go, but god, that felt good.” He looks up at the high dive, differently than before, with bright eyes and the look of a man who just found a weakness to exploit.

Grantaire still can’t quite manage to breathe.

“Should we call it a day?” Enjolras asks, looking at Grantaire again.

Grantaire can only nod.

He goes home in a daze, his sweatpants soaked through from his wet swimsuit because he could not stand the thought of an empty locker room and a dressing Enjolras. The afternoon looks unfamiliar through his car windows; the thin tree branches and brown grass and stirring dry leaves no longer look the same, now that he’s kissed Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr @ andtheheir
> 
> oh boy. next chapter is a doozy.
> 
> (apologies for skipping over the halloween antics. the length of this fic is already vastly out of control and i didn't think it would be too important. but i could maybe write a short side story about it if people are interested!)


	4. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras, Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes, that is the chapter summary because so much happens that it was difficult to summarize it any other way.)
> 
> this is obviously well overdue, and i am SO SORRY FOR THAT. i appreciate everyone's support and patience as i worked through editing this chapter - as i said before, it's a doozy. i had to prioritize another project, and then my grandparents came to town, and i had a library book that i needed to finish, so this took a backseat in my priorities. 
> 
> but it's here now!! and with it comes about half of the word count of this entire fic because i decided that EVERYTHING should happen in the span of one month. so i hope it was worth the wait! enjoy!
> 
> (warning: vague police brutality and this chapter is the reason for the E rating.)

It fucks with him.

He sees flyers for the tuition protest posted to the bulletin outside the local grocery store and it puts the incredible idea in his head that maybe there’s room for him beside Enjolras. That he could stand on a marble statue in front of a crowd of people and protest signs and kiss Enjolras as fiercely as he had kissed him when they were alone, treading water. He and Eponine watch a film one night and Grantaire doesn’t know what happens after he watches two people kiss underwater. His nights grow even more sleepless and he stares at his painting, now afraid to touch it. He ties strings to everything in his life and connects them all to Enjolras’ hands on his jaw, Enjolras’ mouth on his.

Enjolras does not appear to do the same. He still pulls on his goggle straps when he thinks, still carries crumpled papers in his backpack, still texts about his protest during class - he’s entirely unchanged. The glances they exchange are still charged, filling the spaces between them with moments and words - Grantaire just doesn’t know _which_ moments or _which_ words.

No one else treats them differently, so Grantaire can only assume that Enjolras hasn’t told anyone. Or has only told Combeferre - the only person who could possibly and so thoroughly keep such a thing to himself. 

November’s first pasta party takes place at Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s apartment, their quaint living room with bay windows and potted plants and plans marked on wall calendars. 

Combeferre still wears his apron as he stirs his signature tomato sauce (“Family recipe, I have to take it to my grave”) and Jehan still raids their bookshelves and Courfeyrac still debates with Musichetta over what constitutes an appropriate amount of parmesan cheese. Grantaire still brings the wine and Eponine still brings fresh sprigs of basil from her windowsill garden - it’s all still the same on the surface, a carbon copy of years past.

It’s a relief in itself, that things can still feel like this - Grantaire likes to make a spectacle of himself, but doesn’t fancy the thought of the whole team gossiping about Enjolras kissing him.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking too much about the way Enjolras’ fingers brush his as he passes him a plate or how Enjolras again chooses the seat across from his. Or how Enjolras’ throat works when he tips his head back for a sip of his sparkling juice.

Still, Grantaire has to tell someone. He _has_ to. He’s waking with the taste of chlorine on his tongue and losing himself as he stares at the classroom chalkboards and making mountains out of Enjolras’ molehill details, more so than ever before.

And so:

“I kissed Enjolras,” he tells Eponine that Friday when they’re alone, textbooks open on the living room floor, well-intentioned but ultimately neglected. He sits on their sofa with his only glass of wine for the night, too sober to comfortably have this conversation, but he will only have one glass of wine for it, he _will_.

Eponine doesn’t react at first. She lays on her stomach on the floor, arms folded on her sociology textbook as she thumbs through something on her phone. Grantaire watches her, waiting through the riffs of punk music that plays from their record player. Their jack-o-lanterns are still ripe and glowing on the top of their bookshelf, werewolf and graveyard, appropriate in the dimming evening.

“Wait, what?” Eponine blurts belatedly. “Those words - they don’t make sense.”

“I know,” Grantaire says. “I agree.”

Eponine sits up, phone forgotten on the gutter of her text book. “R, say that again and confirm that you weren’t dreaming,” she says seriously and faces him, cross-legged.

Grantaire thinks of a pool as he swirls the wine in his glass, watches the ripples that blossom from its center. “I kissed Enjolras,” he says again, the words both a thrill and a dread inside him. “Well, he more kissed me. And I wasn’t dreaming.”

(Right?)

He can always tell when Eponine is genuinely excited because it wakes in her eyes like the dawn. He watches her gaze brighten before she stands and quickly goes to the kitchen. She comes back with a bottle of champagne. 

Grantaire laughs as she makes a show of popping it open, shooting the cork to the ceiling. “Now, come on, that might be a bit premature,” he says, watching as the bottle pours foam onto her hands and drips onto the carpet.

“No way, why?” she laughs. “If something about it was wrong, Enjolras would have made it known. He’s as subtle as a brick when it comes to things that matter.”

That stops Grantaire; he feels the color drain from his face.

“What happened, when and where and how?” Eponine calls from the kitchen, followed by the clinking of glass against glass. But Grantaire doesn’t hear her. He stares into his wine like it will tell him that it _did_ matter to Enjolras at least to a noteworthy extent, that Enjolras also frequently relives that afternoon. It doesn’t.

It leaves him wondering. 

Eponine brings him a full glass of champagne and he thinks, fuck it, it’s a two-drink night after all.

He recounts that Saturday afternoon and his story ends with them both reclined on the floor, laying in the spaces between their books and balancing their champagne glasses on their stomachs. 

“There’s no way that didn’t, like, affect him, right?” he says, staring up at the evening’s receding glow on the ceiling. “Like, right? That was something?”

“I hardly think he makes the habit of kissing teammates in the pool,” Eponine says and tilts her foot sideways to knock it affectionately against Grantaire’s. “He probably just doesn’t know what to do, or what you think.”

She then sits up and gives Grantaire a little grin. “Congrats,” she says and pats Grantaire’s cheek with her free hand. “Tell me when the wedding is, okay?”

“Only after you tell me what’s going on with Combeferre.”

Eponine stands and tips her head back to finish off her champagne. “I better be your best man,” she says dismissively before she wanders back to the kitchen.

“You can be my maid of honor if you want,” Grantaire calls.

“Nah, I want the tux.”

Enough time passes after that for Grantaire to know that she won’t return until she’s certain he won’t mention Combeferre again. He lifts his champagne glass, observing the bubbles that drift to the surface. Staring through the ivory liquid and he imagines that he’s seeing not the curtains in his living room, but a reception hall. Tables adorned in white table cloths, bouquet of flowers arranged into centerpieces, the chatter of guests in elegant dresses and tailored tuxedos - the unique lens that colors everything when he knows Enjolras is at his side.

He scoffs out loud - it’s that laughable. He has an active imagination, but he cannot envision a golden ring on his left finger, cannot entertain the notion that Enjolras would devote himself to anyone else other than Lady Liberty.

Especially not anyone who wears chaos as regularly as Grantaire.

 

His phone buzzes at five minutes to midnight on November ninth. He is always awake at this hour, though this night feels more significant than the others. The paint he’s piled onto his palette seems dull, both in color and importance, as inspiring as the muddied water for his brushes. It can’t hold his attention for longer than a moment. 

He wants to fix the color of the pool, darken the shadows around Enjolras’ calves, draw more attention to the absence of Enjolras’ reflection, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s standing on a ledge. Standing at one side of a tape line, behind the first edge of a corner: something is about to change. 

He cannot shake the feeling that soon, something will be very different.

He sighs and sets his palette on the towel he’s laid over his desk. Without meaning to, he begins to pace as he fishes his phone from his sweatshirt pocket, passing in and out of his room’s dim lamp light.

He doesn’t not expect Enjolras’ name to be the one attached to the message; his heart makes itself at home in his throat.

‘R U awake? - E’

Grantaire checks the timestamp of Enjolras’ last text - last month, when he had thanked him for his coffee.

This is it, this must be the line he’s been sensing. The end; the beginning. And when Grantaire responds, he will be on the other side.

‘technically.’

‘Can we tlk? - E’

His laundry piled in the basket just outside his closet door; his open laptop, sitting on his bed beside his navy comforter; the empty dishware stacked and lined on top of his dresser of drawers, stained wine glasses and crumb-ridden plates. Grantaire commits to memory the details of his life as he knows it now.

‘sure. where?’

Tomorrow, Enjolras will be talking to a crowd, shouting battle cries, stirring the most feral and powerful parts of people’s hearts. And here, only twelve hours before, he asks to speak with Grantaire in the solace of night.

‘Can u come over? I kno its late notice - E’

Grantaire knows how dishonest the late hours can be. How the black sky and wear from the day and empty streets can make something out of nothing, gold out of twine. Suddenly Enjolras’ invitation to talk sends Grantaire’s head into a feverish dream of Enjolras’ bed.

He knows, he knows of the night’s tales, and yet.

‘sure. now?’

‘Yes if u can - E’

Grantaire stills, closes his eyes, and curses quietly to himself.

‘brt.’

 

Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s apartment smells like freshly-baked cookies; Grantaire’s mouth begins to water the instant Enjolras opens the door.

It’s 12:22 AM and Enjolras looks wide-awake, as if sleep is the only thing of which he is not capable. His bangs are pinned back, his swimming sweatpants sit low on his hips and his socks don’t match and Grantaire can’t look at him for too long.

“Thanks for coming,” Enjolras says quietly. From the kitchen table (bare, except for a stack of newspapers that sits at its center), Combeferre waves. 

“I made cookies earlier,” he says. “Help yourself.” He’s dressed much like Enjolras with a book open in his lap and his phone in his other hand - Grantaire has never seen their apartment under such quiet circumstances. Grantaire is nearly afraid to speak, convinced he’ll break the peace - or maybe it’s the night that scares him. It sits thickly outside the window and high in the redness on his cheeks.

Enjolras watches him, thoughtful and patient, but loaded - the air around him stirs like it does when he’s waiting to speak. This scares Grantaire, too. But even with the front door closed, he stays quiet, and Grantaire can’t shake the thought that, whatever he has to say, can’t be said in front of Combeferre.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says quietly as he plucks one of the cookies from the counter. Enjolras shadows him, gives Grantaire time to say the rest of his piece to Combeferre.

Then, when he doesn’t, Enjolras nods towards the hallway that leads to his bedroom.

12:27 AM will never look the same.

Grantaire focuses on the things he finds in Enjolras’ room - without them, he’s left with his heart, pounding through all of him, and the crumbs that fall onto the collar of his jacket as he eats. He finds the paradox of order versus disorder: the leaning pile of books on which Enjolras’ laptop sits right next to his open planner and jar of paper clips. Pens, pencils, post-it notes, stray and countless in the room, on the floor, on the desk, on the walls - and then the folded pile of clothes on his dresser. 

The tipped-over (but closed) bottle of red nail polish, the polaroids leaning sporadically against the book spines on his shelf, the dissected newspaper tangled in his bed sheets, the several books open to highlighted pages across the woven rug on his floor. The calendar tacked to the bulletin board has detailed notes of his schedule, right down to planned grocery runs. The pile of swim caps that hang out one of his dresser drawers versus the neat row of succulents by his window - it all is at odds with each other, extensions of the opposite ends of Enjolras’ personality.

Grantaire wonders if it would be weird to paint this. He’s not sure he even cares, as the inspiration and utter infatuation grows inside him.

Enjolras closes the door behind them, and then leans against it. “Excuse the mess,” he says quietly.

His clock (softer, blue numbers, unlike Grantaire’s red) reads 12:31. Grantaire stares at the open pack of cigarettes sitting beside it.

“This is last minute for me, too,” Enjolras continues. “I just needed to tie up some loose ends with you before tomorrow. Or, well, later today.”

“I’m flattered that I’m important enough to call at midnight,” Grantaire says, looking at Enjolras again. He looks a little deflated now, leaning against the door - still far away from sleep, but now like he’s been chasing it. “But you’re going to an on-campus rally tomorrow, not an overseas war. We could have talked later.”

“Courfeyrac has received warnings from the campus police,” Enjolras murmurs. “They’ve strongly encouraged him to stop running our ad. Of course he didn’t - freedom of the press - but I can’t shake the feeling that tomorrow is a great unknown.”

Enjolras senses this end, this beginning, too.

“And you said it yourself,” Enjolras adds quietly, watching Grantaire through the thin lamp light, “we called it a riot. They might come dressed for one.”

“For what it’s worth, I sincerely hope I’m wrong about that,” Grantaire murmurs.

“If you’re not, we could be fighting for a lot more than tuition fairness,” Enjolras snaps, and then immediately relents, diffusing himself with a sigh. He plucks one of the bobby pins from his hair to run his fingers through his bangs. “I didn’t call you here to talk about that. You won’t even be there,” he adds stiffly, and Grantaire prefers the white-hot anger.

But before he can provoke it, Enjolras says, “I want to talk to you about that Saturday at the pool.”

The minute goes quiet, but Grantaire finds himself flooded with three, unshakeable thoughts. 

The first is Combeferre, sitting quietly outside the room, seemingly unaware of this conversation - Combeferre, who seems to know all of Enjolras’ somethings.

The second is that there is a right thing to say here, a right way for things to go that could maybe lead them to a slow, lazy fire, warmth between them, breaths and fingers and warm clothes that peel away with the lethargy of the late hour.

The third is the knowledge that Grantaire never says the right things.

12:38 AM, and he nods.

Enjolras takes it as a queue. “I’d like to apologize again,” he says, watching Grantaire intently as he does.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. It was inappropriate, especially without your verbal consent. I let the moment get the best of me, which is not an excuse, just an explanation. And I apologize.”

“Have you been thinking about it a lot?”

Omitted: _Like I have._

Grantaire isn’t entirely sure of why he asks this question, or what he wants from it. He just needs to know.

“Yes,” Enjolras responds quietly, still watching him. He crosses his arms and his t-shirt neck scoops. “It was unfair to you.”

Then he says the thing that matters, that peels away the romanticism in the hour and exposes it for what it truly is - just another god damn hour:

“I wish I hadn’t done it.”

Grantaire smiles through the rot that devours him. “Then let’s pretend it never happened,” he says, tone tilting towards sarcastic, which makes Enjolras narrow his eyes. “No harm, no foul.”

“But it happened, Grantaire, and it might have - ”

“It didn’t,” Grantaire says abruptly. “Whatever you’re about to say, it didn’t happen. I’m not upset that you did it, and you are, so forgetting it benefits us both, yeah?”

Enjolras doesn’t like that - it’s all over his face. He’s unsatisfied and his eyes, bruised and measuring, search Grantaire for something more, something Grantaire probably can’t give him.

“It didn’t upset you?” he finally asks, hollow, just as Grantaire wonders if he could get away with asking for one (or all) of those cigarettes. Smoking has never done it for him, but when there’s no alcohol in sight and Enjolras admits to regretting the kiss right from Grantaire’s dreams - desperate times, desperate measures.

“No,” he says shortly.

“I don’t want to pretend it never happened,” Enjolras insists firmly. “But I don’t want it to ruin anything between us.”

“Fine. Done.”

Enjolras presses his lips into a firm line. “You’re not convincing me that it didn’t upset you.”

(Somewhere, there is a world where Grantaire said the thing that led to them pushing the newspapers off the bed.)

He smiles again and crosses his arms. “I can’t convince you of most things, so how is this different?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Fine. Will you be there tomorrow?”

“You already said that I won’t be.”

“But _you_ didn’t.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you argue with me every time it comes up,” Enjolras says, voice rising, though he’s speaking through his teeth now, the hard lines of his jaw audible. “I even asked for your help and you left the room for the rest of the night.”

(Somewhere, there is a world where Grantaire does everything right.)

While it’s being honest, brutal, the hour also exposes their constant back-and-forth, their one step forward and two steps back, for what it truly is: exhausting. Grantaire has spent years convincing himself that it’s comfortable, interesting - a razor-teeth Enjolras is better than any other Enjolras that he thought he could get.

But he’s finally had a quiet Enjolras, staring at greenhouse plants like they, too, have a voice. He’s had Enjolras alone in his car, fingers slotted easily over the gearshift and hair pale in the moonlight that spills through the sunroof - he’s had Enjolras, beaming, elated, kicking clumsily through the water to stay afloat as they held each other.

And now, he has Enjolras, looking as threadbare and frayed as he feels, staring at him expectantly, perhaps also thinking of past Grantaires that are better than this one.

“Why is it so important to you that I’m there?” Grantaire asks quietly.

“Because this is important,” Enjolras insists quietly. He sounds like he feels so much that he can barely breathe. “And you’re a part of this.”

Then, he says the other thing that sticks, that feels entirely at odds with his previous thesis for the night:

“I need your help.”

(Somewhere, there is a world where that’s the only thing that sticks, where that fixes everything.)

Grantaire stands there without words - instead with a crater in his chest.

Enjolras watches him for a long moment before he sighs and rubs his eyes. “I can’t make you do anything, I don’t want to make you do anything,” he murmurs. “If you’re not upset about that Saturday, then that’s all I wanted to talk about. Thanks for coming over.”

He moves away from the door with a fatigue that doesn’t suit him. He leaves his room, leaves Grantaire, and Grantaire knows a dismissal when he sees one.

The entire walk home smells of the approaching morning’s frost and of Friday’s parties, laughter and liquor. Grantaire’s feet drag as he goes down the sidewalk, too tired to feel much of anything.

 

He wakes Saturday, late with the cancelled practice, and still pursued by the feeling of change, like he will sit up in bed and find himself somewhere he’s never been.

 

Grantaire makes his way to the dean’s courtyard at half past noon, when the shouts are already as high as the sun.

(In the end, he couldn’t get Enjolras’ words from his head: “I need your help.”)

He finds a spot for himself in the back, anonymous among the raised fists and cardboard signs, leaning against the pedestal for one of the courtyard’s smaller sculptures. A glass of wine spins in his head and he feels like an imposter and he hates this, the tangible and dangerous energy in the air that affects him only in annoyance. He wants to want to join in the screams, the commotion, but he doesn’t, not at all. He pulls his beanie down further and sighs so heavily that it fogs before his mouth.

And then, standing front and center at the top step of the dean’s large house, is Enjolras.

Grantaire sees him in the gaps between heads, the spaces vacant between signs - him, framed like a portrait in the lines of the dean’s front door. Enjolras makes pedestals out of the world’s most mundane things, turning steps and diving boards into stages, and, through he looks different here than he does on the diving board, he still owns them both. There, with his poised contemplation and quiet, vulnerable dignity; here, with his megaphone and perfect words and atomic energy - violent and breath-taking, an unspeakable force in his peacoat and red scarf and with his fist rising to punctuate his ringing words.

He’s saying things, the best of things, but Grantaire can’t hear them. The rest of their friends stand on the steps below Enjolras with signs and a supporting energy - Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Cosette, Marius, Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta, Eponine. All of them, nodding and cheering to lift Enjolras’ chanting, furious and burning.

All of the windows to the dean’s house are blocked with drawn curtains.

(Grantaire wants to set the house on fire.)

It all goes wrong before he realizes it - he’s in the middle of his aching chest, treading it like the ocean as he watches Enjolras lead the crowd, when the shouting around him sharpens, turns to screams. Enjolras points to somewhere in the crowd, where excess activity has erupted, and Bossuet, Bahorel, and Musichetta drop their signs, leap into the mob.

Police, adorned with padded uniforms and boots, storm the crowd, pass right by Grantaire, where he’s leaning in the outskirts of the crowd. Chaos unfolds around him, cries and thumps of people falling to the ground and fleeing footsteps.

And, through it all, Grantaire watches as a man, badged as the campus police, knocks Enjolras to his knees, then to his stomach, hard enough to skin Enjolras’ chin to bleeding. Enjolras’ teeth are bared and his arms are pinned behind his back, his megaphone lying beside him on the top step. 

Enjolras thrashes and the steps are empty, his friends thrown out of sight or into the mob - and Grantaire goes, sprints from his hiding place and towards the house, though he knows there’s no way he’ll make it in time -

Someone catches him amidst the noise, pulls him from the thrown elbows and signs.

And then Grantaire is no longer in the fray and he realizes that the fingers gripping his wrist like a vice belong to Montparnasse.

“Idiot,” Montparnasse snarls as Grantaire tears from his grip, blood rushing and heart pounding, needing Enjolras. Montparnasse takes him by the shoulders this time and shoves him against one of the campus buildings, somewhere where the riot sounds miles away. “Your entire fucking team was just arrested - _listen_ to me - they need someone to bail him.”

Montparnasse’s eyes are bright and clear in all the ways that Grantaire doesn’t feel - unusual for him and the general distance that he keeps from everything important. Grantaire wants to fight him, has his hands on the lapels of Montparnasse’s long coat, clutching him because this isn’t about just Enjolras, it’s about everyone. But nothing more comes from him. His knuckles are white and Montparnasse stares right through his anger, bringing him reason and the certainty that Montparnasse is right.

And then Grantaire realizes why Montparnasse is even here, why his hair looks loose in the way unique to running fingers through it. “Jehan,” Grantaire says quietly.

“I have cameras everywhere,” Montparnasse says firmly, but Grantaire feels his grip tighten on his shoulders. He is the calm in the storm, unshakable, but not unaffected, and that’s clear in the downturn of his mouth, in his dark-ringed eyes. “As long as no one incites violence against the police, we will be able to prove that the police are the ones who started this, and everyone will walk with minor charges. Your boy will face the worst, being the leader, but nothing life-ruining. He’ll still graduate, he’ll still move on.”

Grantaire finds himself nodding through this, even as bile rises to his throat.

“And for now, you need to be on this side of the fray, you need to be his hand on the outside,” Montparnasse concludes, a lot like he’s trying to convince himself of the same.

“Is that why you’re just letting this happen?” Grantaire asks, though it’s hard to speak through the image of Enjolras pinned to the ground, burned into his eyes like the sun. “I wouldn’t think you’d excuse the officer who took down Jehan.”

He isn’t even sure Montparnasse hears him above the noise of the crowd, but, after a moment, Montparnasse’s expression closes. He’s dull-eyed and predatory, dangerous like Grantaire knows him, the reason why anyone would find violence in silence.

“Think nothing of any upcoming news regarding a particular missing campus officer,” he says coolly, an ice pick, and Grantaire can’t help himself. He grins.

 

Eponine finds him first, after the crowd has broken apart into small groups of noise. After Montparnasse takes off, Grantaire stands near the outskirts, sweating in the cool afternoon as he plays the bystander. His hands are shaking in his pockets.

When Eponine literally runs into him, she’s wild-eyed and bruised but otherwise unharmed and Grantaire pulls her close. He can’t tell which of them is trembling more and her hair, loose in its bun, smells less like chlorine and more like grass.

“Fuckers,” she breathes into his shoulder. “Motherfuckers started this, we knew it, R, they wanted a riot, an excuse to shut us down.”

“They didn’t get you,” he says, reassuring himself more than her.

Eponine’s body racks through her short laugh. “Who do you think taught Gavroche how to run from the cops?”

She pulls back, curses breathlessly, and looks at the contained commotion around them. The black polish on her fingernails has chipped and she fixes her hair, pulling the strays away from her dirt-smeared cheeks. “They took everyone to the campus holding facility for inciting a riot,” she says through her teeth. “Enj might face criminal charges - Courf too, for his role in the newspaper, fuck, those _fuckers._ Montparnasse better get them.”

And this is it, the turned corner, the air off the ledge - Grantaire realizes it in a moment of clarity, in the calm between two beats of his pounding heart.

Eponine stares at him through it, looking different in the afternoon sun, in her sweatshirt and leather jacket, young and time-worn all at once. Bright enough to believe in change, dull enough to never hope for it.

Her hands are cold as she takes Grantaire’s cheeks, holding him. “You did the right thing,” she murmurs and means it, and she tips Grantaire’s head down to push their foreheads together.

She’s familiar now, close in this unfamiliar world. Grantaire touches her elbows and breathes out a slow breath. He’s afraid, and it does nothing to help him.

Around them, the last of the protest dies, cries out one last time before it blows out like a fire in the night.

 

They moved Enjolras to a holding cell in the city, citing excessive resistance.

Grantaire goes alone. Montparnasse goes to the campus department for the others; Eponine tails him there, but stays in the car.

They lead Enjolras into the lobby by his elbow, his wrists cuffed behind his back and Enjolras looks like he still needs them. Where as Montparnasse looks dangerous like the edge of a dagger, Enjolras has the violence of an explosion, a nuclear fury in the set of his jaw and his narrowed eyes. They’ve bandaged his chin, but there is a stain on his scarf, a darker red. It is strewn unevenly and loose around his neck.

Grantaire barely hears anything they tell him about the bail; something about Enjolras’ parents’ money and parameters. But the instant Enjolras is uncuffed, Grantaire takes Enjolras’ arm, has to touch him somehow. Enjolras’ hair is loose, having lost his binder and bobby pins somewhere along the way, and he doesn’t look at Grantaire, instead fixated on the officer who led him from his holding cell. His shoulders are straight and his jaw set - composure locked and impervious.

Only when they’re outside, moving through the jewel-toned evening, does Enjolras begin to rub his wrists. In the light from the parking lot lamps, Grantaire catches peeks of Enjolras’ skin where his coat sleeve rides up. He nearly turns back to hold whomever is responsible for the red-raw marks accountable.

The evening feels loud once they’re inside Grantaire’s car, closed off from it. They sit still, Enjolras staring through the windshield and Grantaire staring at Enjolras, nearly afraid that he’ll look away and Enjolras will be gone again, thrown away for good. Enjolras, bold and vicious and stunning, in a holding cell, rusted bars, blanched out walls, and stained concrete floors.

Grantaire hates even the thought, as much as he could ever hate anything, so vile he feels poisoned.

“What about the others?” Enjolras asks, voice hollow, like he left half of himself on the dean’s front step.

“Eponine and Montparnasse are getting them from the campus facility,” Grantaire says, and the distance in his own voice surprises him.

In the dark car, Enjolras looks gray, colorless.

“They say I could face time for instigating a riot and violence against police officers,” Enjolras says, tone appropriate for commenting on the weather. “At the very least, I won’t be able to walk at graduation. Or participate in the varsity swim finals.”

That last bit hangs in the air. Grantaire’s mouth goes dry and he shakes his head, this side of the line all wrong, this whole new world of theirs holding fast like a bad taste on his tongue. He had known this would happen - not this exactly, but something close, something devastating, and he never wished for himself to be so wrong.

“Montparnasse was there,” Grantaire says. “He had cameras. Your charges will never hold up in court once they see they police struck first.”

“They called my parents,” Enjolras says and Grantaire listens, feeling that Enjolras just needs to talk. Enjolras draws in a slow and deep breath before he continues, “My father told me not to speak until I have my lawyer. My mother cried, but said she was proud of me.”

Grantaire smiles at that, but dwells then on just how young Enjolras is. A year older than himself, but too young to change the world. “So do you regret it?”

The car windows begin to cloud from their breath. Enjolras finally looks at him in the darkness, the whites of his eyes reflecting the nearest street lamp. He’s finally all there and looks at Grantaire with all of himself, all that Grantaire knows of him - with the same fire from before, burning as brightly as ever.

“Not at all,” he says firmly. “This isn’t over.”

And then, he reaches out to touch Grantaire’s coat sleeve, knuckles dried with blood and nails bedded with dirt. The moment goes quiet again, and Enjolras tells him softly, “Thank you for being here.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to say that not being here was never an option, that he could think of nothing else when Enjolras was incarcerated, that he needs to follow Enjolras as certainly as autumn follows summer.

So he gingerly touches the back of Enjolras’ hand, and then sticks the car keys into the ignition.

 

They make the front page of the newspaper, both the city’s and the campus’. They both use the same image of Enjolras, standing in front of his crowd with his fist raised and his megaphone at his mouth, printed large above their bold headlines.

 

Their second round of limbo comes four days after the protest and three days before the start of taper. 

Practice carries on like nothing has changed, though the fate of their captain has yet to be decided. Montparnasse’s anonymously-submitted evidence, in addition to Courfeyrac’s gathered witness testimonies, has cast doubt on the credibility of the charges, but has, for better or for worse, paved the way for a search of Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s apartment. If they can find no more evidence supporting the intentional violence of the protest, then their criminal charges will be dropped.

They all swim like none of this is happening. Bahorel has a new hot pink water bottle and swims like the new bruises on his wrists and biceps are just for show. Feuilly still bounces on his toes when he has time to spare between his 100s, keeping himself warmed up despite the scrapes on his shins. And Grantaire still keeps up with them, still looks at Enjolras occasionally, who still watches the clock between sets. The cut on his chin has already paled.

The practice finishes and everyone climbs out of the pool with trembling limbs. Night has fallen outside and blood rushes through all of Grantaire, flushing his skin where he aches the most, but he feels good, tired in the most productive way. Cleared out of all of his restless nights and pacing steps and tapping fingers.

He doesn’t stay after, not even when Enjolras doesn’t follow them all into the locker room - Grantaire would never describe himself as tactful, but even he can feel the buzzing around Enjolras, the pent-up energy that can only be helped in solitude.

 

Enjolras texts him Saturday evening: ‘Criminal charges dropped. Will not walk @ graduation, will not swim @ finals. Ferre negotiated Courf’s banishment and took his place. - E’

Grantaire, idly holding a paintbrush in his hand, looks up at his painting. He stares at the water, wet with new shadows, right where Enjolras’ reflection should be.

He goes to get a drink.

 

Taper comes. Joly brings a pallet of baked goods to mark the start of easier and shortened practices, and they all take turns plucking fruit-littered muffins and bars from the table between sets. Grantaire had watched Combeferre work on their readjusted final line-up all through Shakespeare that morning and he hasn’t felt hungry since.

Enjolras asks him to stay late anyway: he, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Joly need to practice their new relay line-up.

So he does, and they’re a seamless line up. They all touch Enjolras and Combeferre on their way to the locker room, patting their shoulders, stroking their hair - Grantaire gives them each a nod. 

No one says what they’re all thinking: _this is bullshit._

 

The next day: ‘New Evidence Shows Dean’s Orders to Turn Protest Violent.’

Grantaire stops on his way to figure drawing and plucks the newspaper from the stand. The late morning is quiet around him, subdued in the soft trudging of shoes on the sidewalk, of jackets flapping in the wind. The leaves are almost entirely gone now and the air smells of the impending months of cold, as if the sun is not merely hidden by clouds, but has left the sky all together.

The fibers of Grantaire’s scarf are loosening around his mouth and he reads the sub headline: ‘Phone call between dean and campus police sites mutual agreement that tuition protest ‘needs to look like a riot’.’

Grantaire reads the article on his way to class.

Then, in the middle of the model session, Montparnasse sets his hand on the newspaper that Grantaire had left on his desk, metal rings hitting the wood, and leans in close to his ear, “It’s not enough to get them back on the finals roster, but it will be enough to corner the dean into meeting them halfway.”

 

‘Meet me @ the pool? - E’

Enjolras’ text comes the night before JV finals, just as the year’s first snow begins to fall.

Grantaire sees his phone light up in the reflection on the window, penetrating the darkness of his room. He’s folded himself and a glass of wine onto his windowsill, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a tank-top, to watch the snow, the beautiful and strange thing that it is. 

A flake itself is hardly anything, smaller than a fingernail, neither warm nor cold - illuminating as it passes through the street lights like a deep sea creature. Silent - few things are truly silent, but snowflakes carry no sound and so, when one snowflake becomes a blanket, a world-stopping veil, it’s difficult to be angry because at least the snow never makes a fuss.

Grantaire sips the last of his wine (only one glass tonight, _only one_ ), and picks up his phone. He hears Enjolras’ voice in the stillness, the words that feel so far away now, yet still close enough to make knots inside him - _“I wish I hadn’t done it”_ \- but Grantaire texts him anyway.

‘sure. now?’

Immediate: ‘please. - E’

Grantaire sets his wine glass beside the window and slips off of the ledge.

He doesn’t bring his swimsuit - he feels like he won’t need it.

The pool thrums in the low-lighting, half of the ceiling lights on and the other half off. The lights at the bottom of the pool throw a blue coloring over the walls and empty seats - the instant Grantaire enters, he’s caught in its refracting net.

He breathes in the chlorine and brushes the lingering snowflakes from his jacket and hair (beanie forgotten) - he doesn’t see Enjolras at first. The diving boards are vacant, standing as tall and uninviting as hunched shoulders, bristling at being disturbed so late. They turn up their chins as Grantaire acknowledges them and then moves on, scanning the polished tile and wound-up lane lines for Enjolras.

Then, just as Grantaire starts towards the locker room, he sees that the back door stands cracked open, its door stop lowered. The snow glows like spectres falling through the building’s outside lights, catching Grantaire’s gaze through the thin gap in the doorway; the shadow on the door moves, and Grantaire catches a glimpse of Enjolras’ boot.

The clock says five past midnight. Grantaire’s wet sneakers squeak against the floor as he goes to the door slowly, slipping through the pool’s tangle of lights. He sees Enjolras’ breath - the very same fog that he’s seen cloud his car windows - and then Enjolras himself, his bare hands pushing the door further open so that he can peek inside.

“Hey,” Enjolras says quietly and it’s not breath that comes from his chapped lips - it’s too thick, heavy, too obviously carried away on the night’s wind.

“Are you - ?” Grantaire starts, but then he sees it, Enjolras’ other hand, white-knuckled and purple-nailed, the cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers.

Grantaire stares. Seeing a pack of cigarettes beside Enjolras’ bed is one thing, the possibility that they aren’t his at all, but seeing one in his hand is something so different - 

And then, seeing him lift it to his mouth after he ducks back into the quiet night, seeing it mimic the street lamps as his cheeks hollow, as his pale eyelashes fan in the shadows above his flushed cheekbones - and _then_ to see him tip his head back to release the smoke from his mouth like releasing something from its cage, just the subtle shift of his jaw, the shallow gape of his mouth and the shadows that gather dark beneath his jawline -

That, _that,_ is something so devastatingly different.

“Do you want one?” Enjolras asks quietly, flicking the end of the cigarette to rid it of ashes.

Grantaire swallows with difficulty and joins Enjolras in the night, the door propped open behind them. “There’s no way you smoke,” he says and leans against the cold building. The bottoms of his sweatpants collect a rim of snow like salt on a margarita glass.

“I don’t do it often,” Enjolras says and he lifts the cigarette to eye level, staring at it like it’s saying something. “Only when I’m stressed. Combeferre would not be okay with it if he knew, so I hope you’ll keep this between us.”

Enjolras is still wearing the same gray jeans from earlier in the day, like he had never once even considered going to bed. They’re tucked into his snow-dusted boots.

“Got it, lips are sealed,” Grantaire says. “And yes, I will take one of those if you’re offering.”

Enjolras sets the cigarette in his mouth (Grantaire stares again) and reaches into the lapel of his coat. He offers Grantaire one of the cigarettes from the box, which is half-gone.

“Jesus, how stressed are you lately?” he mutters and takes one.

“Really?” Enjolras asks blandly, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he speaks. “You’re going to ask me that at this time in my life?”

He produces the lighter - metal, refillable, and with a flip-top - and Grantaire leans in close. “Fair,” he murmurs and tries not to watch Enjolras’ fingers as he breathes to light the cigarette.

The smoke is hot in his mouth and goes right to his lungs. It’s so warm and the outside is so cold - Grantaire imagines that his lungs are a newly struck match, glowing and flaring in a moment before settling into a content heat.

He leans back against the wall again to exhale; Enjolras watches him.

“You’re not one to abuse any of your privileges,” Grantaire murmurs, the nicotine already sticking to his teeth. “What was so important that you needed to use your captain-sanctioned pool key at midnight. The night before JV finals, no less.”

The scar on Enjolras’ chin has already gone white. He doesn’t respond right away, gazing into the darkest parts of the night and casting himself far away. The outside light sits severely on the contours of his forehead and nose and the snow drifts soundlessly around them, patient, in no rush.

“I try not to regret anything,” Enjolras finally says, his words all breath and clouds now, the cigarette held between his fingers at his side. “Especially things that I know benefitted the life of someone else. Because of that protest, there is now an unofficial word that the dean is going to postpone several construction projects and freeze tuition for all current students.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. Enjolras talks as slowly as the snow falls, forming his thoughts as he speaks them.

They each pull from their cigarette and Enjolras continues, closing his eyes as he exhales the smoke. “I don’t regret it. And I’d do it again. But this is my last year to swim at state and they took it from me.”

His last words come quiet though cutting, spoken with the malice that comes from grudges.

“Do you have the paperwork?” Grantaire asks quietly, the most helpful thing he can think to say, “Maybe Bahorel can find a loophole.”

“He tried,” Enjolras says, empty now, like he’s said his piece and there’s nothing left of him. “It’s ironclad. I must withdraw my entry from the varsity swim finals.”

His jaw tightens then, and all of him comes back - too much of him comes back and his fingers shake as he takes another drag. The lines of his brow deepen and Grantaire feels it, the anger and passion so vivid that it changes the air around them.

“Get mad,” Grantaire presses and this time, when Enjolras looks at him, he’s aflame. “Get pissed, Enjolras, I know you think of others hours before you think of yourself, but they tried to fuck _you_ up. They tried to ruin _your_ life and you have every right to be angry.”

“I am,” Enjolras snaps, flares, the only lingering sound in the night. “And Combeferre - ”

“No,” Grantaire interrupts him abruptly and turns to take Enjolras’ face into both hands, cigarette poised carefully between his fingers to keep it from touching Enjolras’ skin. “No, no, we love Combeferre, but this is about _you_. We’re alone and it’s midnight and we are here to talk about what they did to _you._ ”

Enjolras nods faintly, his breathing coming in quiet, shallow puffs, there then gone. “Okay,” he says breathlessly and Grantaire lets him go because they’re terribly close. They take another simultaneous drag; Grantaire’s fingers are shaking.

“Now let me hear it,” he says as the smoke leaves his mouth.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Enjolras shouts. It comes bursting from him, so large and loud that he couldn’t have held it for much longer - so torn open that Grantaire feels its pain in his own chest.

He throws his head back and shouts it again, again. This Enjolras, screaming on his own behalf, is different than the one with the megaphone, but no less furious. He echoes in the night, leaves his mark like a stone through glass - everyone nearby will wake tomorrow and feel differently, but not know why. The Enjolras on the dean’s steps is a force to follow, and this one is the force to flee. Straight from the horror stories of gods who have something stolen from them.

The air vibrates when he’s done. The snow continues to fall into his air. The clouds in front of Enjolras’ mouth are larger, thicker, his breathing audible in the space between them. 

Grantaire wants to reach out and hold him as he comes back to himself, shuddering and folding his new self back into his confines. He wants to kiss the snowflakes that sit in Enjolras’ loose hair and touch the back of his neck, where his skin shows from beneath his coat collar. 

He doesn’t. He simply watches and quietly splinters.

“It’s frustrating,” Enjolras finally says and sniffles, drawing the last breath from his cigarette. He won’t look at Grantaire. “I know I barely know anything of hardship, but _god_ these people have already gotten away with so much bullshit. And Combeferre - he’s dragged into it because we fucking live together.”

Enjolras turns towards the building and puts the cigarette out on the brick.

“But you don’t regret it?” Grantaire confirms from somewhere deep inside himself. He closes his eyes, his toes now going cold in his sneakers, and he pulls from the cigarette again.

Enjolras’ response comes after a long moment, quiet in the incredible way that turns atoms into universes. “No.”

Grantaire breathes out the smoke and nods, finding Enjolras looking at him again as he opens his eyes. It’s the way he’s turned now, but the bruises under his eyes look dark enough to be ink-stained.

“Hold onto that,” Grantaire tells him quietly. “That’s a rare thing.”

(Grantaire still doesn’t know if he regrets their kiss or not.)

Enjolras regards him silently, eyes fixed as he works through Grantaire’s words, his pieces - takes him apart, then puts him back together. 

“R,” he says quietly, tasting the nickname and Grantaire wishes he wouldn’t, not if he’s going to regret the things they’ve done. “You’ve been a pillar for me these last few months. I don’t know if you realize it, or if I’ve done a terrible job at expressing it. But I want you to know how much I appreciate it. Thank you. And thank you for being at the protest.”

“I didn’t even - ”

“You did, though,” Enjolras says firmly. “You did more than enough. Thank you. If there’s any way I can repay the favor, let me know.”

Grantaire laughs quietly, weakly. “It wasn’t a favor, Enjolras.”

Anything more that he could say would be devastating, and so he takes a long drag. Anything more would give him away (again), would tell that he could never regret a kiss with Enjolras, no matter how much he wants to.

Enjolras watches him silently, through the snow that falls between them.

“All right,” he finally murmurs.

Grantaire finishes his cigarette and smears its ashes on the wall beside Enjolras’. Enjolras insists that he tucks its butt into his cigarette box instead of flicking it to the snow, and then they go inside, into the drastically different climate of the empty pool. The back door closes behind them with a click that echoes and the clock reads 12:34.

They leave with only a few more exchanged words and frequent sniffles. Their shoes leave footprints in the snow that has collected like dust in the parking lot, and Grantaire’s teeth still taste like nicotine. He sits quietly in his car, watching as Enjolras’ headlights flicker on and then as he steers from his spot, taillights casting pink on the snow.

Grantaire’s lights catch his window and he gives Grantaire a half wave.

 

The paper prints that morning: ‘Dean: tuition rates will freeze for all current students’.

Eponine doesn’t respond when Grantaire asks how it appeared on their kitchen table.

 

“Well,” Joly says, “we’ve barely used it this year, and we have the money for it, so let’s use it.”

They take the team bus to JV finals.

It’s a nice bus, with its soft seat cushions and armrests and adjustable blinds. The snow has stopped, but left the windows frosted. Grantaire sits by Eponine so that they can share a set of earbuds to listen to a true crime podcast - but Musichetta sits in front of them and spends most of the ride facing backwards so that she can talk to Eponine from over the top of her seat.

Eponine picks for them a row only three from the front, which is much further forward than usual. But it makes sense once Combeferre picks the adjacent row for him and Enjolras.

Enjolras looks no worse for wear than usual. All that’s visible of his late night is the shadows under his eyes; he’s still attentive, sitting straight in his warm-up jacket and peacoat, punching when he can at the inflatable beach ball that Courfeyrac starts bopping around twenty minutes into the drive. 

For the most part, he and Combeferre keep themselves tucked close to the roster clipboard, talking beneath the hum of the bus engine. Enjolras points as Combeferre writes. They only lift their heads to sip from their travel mugs, and, soon, Joly maneuvers himself and his cane to the end of their row to help.

Grantaire tries to listen to the bud in his ear, then tries to close his eyes to nap when he can’t. But his mind won’t still. From the pack of cigarettes in Enjolras’ coat (is it still there?), to the varsity roster - entirely incomplete without Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s names - to the breathless memory of kissing Enjolras while treading water, it all piles on top of itself and leaves Grantaire’s head buzzing. He only opens his eyes when Feuilly comes by with a plate of scones from his bakery.

It’s weird, being at the JV finals in full clothes and with no intention to swim it. Their team finds an empty row in the balcony and claims it with jackets and scarves while most of them go to the concession stand for coffee or to encourage their JV swimmers through warm-up. Grantaire stays, settling in a spot at the end closest to the stairs, and he feels all wrong, gazing down at the pool.

“Does it feel weird?” Enjolras asks, appearing to sit by him. He gingerly nudges Eponine’s coat out of the way so that he can sit close to Grantaire, having left his coat somewhere down their line of jackets.

“Yeah,” Grantaire admits, already stripped down to his t-shirt, and he hopes that Enjolras doesn’t notice it’s the one he had worn yesterday. The chlorine air sticks to his skin, damp on his arms and neck, and he twists his phone between his restless fingers. “I always swim this. I always thought I would.”

“Do you miss it?” Enjolras asks and watches him, the fluorescents shining high on his cheek bones. Grantaire wonders which he’d taste like if he kissed him now: coffee or nicotine. “Today is the last day of the JV season. We still have another week before our finals.”

‘We’, though there will be no finals for Enjolras.

“No,” Grantaire says honestly. “I mean that, but you have to know that’s not a fair question coming from you. I do miss my naps, though.”

“I knew you’d be honest and tear into me if you needed to,” Enjolras says and shrugs. “I was curious. I would have asked more subtly if I were talking to anyone else.”

“You don’t wear subtle well.”

“Being captain has taught me a few things.”

In the brief quiet that follows, Grantaire becomes aware of the small gap between their thighs. He continues to fidget with his phone and the commotion of the pool continues around them.

“Shouldn’t a captain be down there, encouraging the JV team?” Grantaire says, eyes following the backstrokers as they swim their laps.

“Combeferre is down there,” Enjolras says. “I need to ask you something.”

Grantaire looks at the diving boards, sitting at about eye level, and wonders if those words will ever fail to send his heart into his throat.

“Shoot,” he says.

“Will you swim the 500 at varsity finals for Combeferre?”

(Something floods Grantaire’s chest, and he can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment.)

“We can drop our entry all together,” Enjolras continues, turning more towards Grantaire when he doesn’t react. “We registered Combeferre last month. If you think it will interfere with your relay or backstroke, we can withdraw, but he and I think you can do it. I want a repeat of last time.”

Grantaire remembers his last 500 in fragments: seeing his competition directly at his sides, his burning lungs, Enjolras’ arms around him and steadying the tremors moving through him.

Then, Enjolras asks Grantaire a question that Grantaire hardly ever considers: “Do you think you can do it?”

He wants to say no - he’s so close that he opens his mouth. Below, Combeferre stands at the head of their designated lane and talks with the swimmers he pulls from the water. Combeferre has always been a shape into which Grantaire could never fit, and surely it would be insulting for him to take Combeferre’s starting block -

But he wants to.

He remembers the thrill, the hot adrenaline of the race. And he wants to.

Not only because Enjolras wants him to. He wants something for himself - and that scares him.

“What about you?” he asks, a brief aside as he works through this. Enjolras raises his eyebrows and looks unamused, like he thinks Grantaire is avoiding the question. “You have a slot in the 100 butterfly, right? Is Joly taking that, too?”

Enjolras then looks down at the pool, a lot like he looks at the diving board, and nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly and runs a hand through his unpinned hair. “Yeah, Joly is taking my place.”

Courfeyrac leads their their varsity team back to the stands, each person with at least one paper cup of coffee in hand. And before the spaces around them fill, before they’re no longer alone, Grantaire follows Enjolras’ gaze and says, “Yeah, I’ll swim the 500.”

Enjolras’ thigh touches his.

A smile takes Enjolras’ mouth just before the moment breaks, silence smothered like sand beneath a tide. Eponine hands him his coffee and Grantaire drinks it even when it burns his tongue. Enjolras stands and passes in front of Grantaire, touching his shoulder as he goes.

 

By the time Grantaire realizes that Jehan is absent, he appears during the second heat of the 100 breaststroke. Most of the team stands with Enjolras at the front of the stands, leaned over the railing and cheering and their screams collect in the glass vaulted ceiling; so no one sees the bitten flush on Jehan’s lips or the shy smile on his mouth or the bruises forming on the side of his neck, peppered potently just beneath his jaw. 

Jehan sees him and signs a ‘thank you’ to him, and Grantaire returns his smile, catching sight of Montparnasse standing at the concessions counter.

 

They had back to campus that evening, their annual post-JV dinner and drinks bringing them to autumn’s early nightfall. The darkness inside the bus covers the way Grantaire peeks at Enjolras from across the aisle, the way he stares once he realizes that Enjolras’ mouth hangs open in a way that could only mean he’s sleeping. The loose line of his jaw glows in the light from Combeferre’s phone.

 

Late November, and the mornings are identical to the nights. Grantaire pushes his alarm clock further into the darkness of his bedroom when it wakes him on Monday morning, pushes until it thuds and then quiets.

His thoughts remain dormant in his strewn-about bed sheets. He navigates the shadows and the darker shadows, stepping carefully around his easel and book piles to find clothes that smell the best or don’t smell at all. His clock stares up at him from the floor, casting a red light onto his wall, and he decides to deal with that later.

His mind dawns in a headache, and he’s between curse words when he passes through the living room and realizes they have company. Or, rather, Eponine, who is nowhere to be seen, has company.

Combeferre sits under the fairy lights, soft and cross-legged on the sofa. He’s piled the throw pillows around him and his phone screen reflects off his glasses; he’s fully-dressed, down to his wool socks, and again, Grantaire wants to be Combeferre when he grows up. Someday, he wants to be fully dressed and composed of neat lines and neater thoughts before the sun even rises.

Combeferre regards him with a quick stare and a small smile. “Morning,” he says softly. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says and clears his throat, hoping Combeferre can’t smell his breath from across the room. “Yeah, just a headache.”

In the silence that follows, Grantaire is sure that they’re both thinking the same thing: is it due to too many drinks or too few? Surely it can’t be too many - he hasn’t had more than one glass of wine per night this week.

“Where’s Eponine?” Grantaire asks, still trying to put this scene - Combeferre, the early morning, his living room - together. A lot of him remains in bed, detached and lethargic and hiding under his pillows.

Combeferre looks back at his phone. “Library,” he says. “She had to pick up a few books for her lecture. I hope you don’t mind my company - I was already here and thought we could just walk to Shakespeare together.”

He leans forward and picks up the coffee pot that he had commandeered from the kitchen and set on a hot pad on the table. As he pours the last of the coffee into his moth mug, Grantaire sees it, the bruise sitting dark just above the collar of his shirt.

It all clicks.

“About time,” Grantaire says bluntly and Combeferre raises his eyebrows. “Eponine has been coy about you two for an entire month, so finally, congrats.”

Combeferre laughs quietly, uncertainly, and adjusts his shirt collar. Grantaire wonders if he’d see him blush in higher lighting. “Ah, well, I don’t think either of us are ready to say something about it, so keep this between us.”

Steam rises from Combeferre’s cup; suddenly Grantaire is everyone’s favorite secret-keeper.

“Do you want me to make another pot of coffee before we go?” Combeferre asks, setting the empty pot back on the pad.

“No, I’ll grab something from the cafe if I need to,” Grantaire says, going towards the bathroom. “I just need to brush my teeth and then we can go.”

“All right.”

Grantaire stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, stands still for long enough to let the rest of him wake. His headache blooms, prevailing in the bright bathroom light, sharing his mind with only one other thought:

Soon, this will all be over.

He’s been able to ignore this truth for a while, succumbing to it only when the moment feels momentous. But as the days go on, he comes closer and closer to new absences in his life, new spaces that he won’t be able to fill. He already thinks about them and feels empty, leaving him to wonder when this new way of life, this new normal - Combeferre on his sofa in the early morning and Enjolras smoking in the late night - had become so critical to the rest of his life.

He spits toothpaste into the sink and wonders when his life grew ledges and more ledges - more beginnings and more endings.

“R?” Combeferre asks, from much closer than Grantaire expects. It makes him start.

Grantaire washes the toothpaste down the drain and straightens to find Combeferre standing in the doorway. The new lights expose more marks sitting low on his neck. “Yeah?”

“Enj told me you’d swim the 500 at finals,” Combeferre says and leans against the door frame. Grantaire pulls his arms from his shirt sleeves so that he can apply deodorant. “I wanted to say thank you. There’s no one else that I’d rather take my place.”

Grantaire scoffs and rakes his fingers repeatedly through his hair, fingers catching occasionally in the curls. He smells chlorine on his scalp. “There are others who would do better, but.”

He stops himself from saying that he wants to do it, that he still wants to do it, even when Enjolras’ thigh isn’t touching his own.

Combeferre shakes his head. “You have the stamina. It won’t interfere with your relay, since it’ll be much later, and you’ll have a few events to recover before your 100 backstroke.”

Grantaire glances sideways to meet Combeferre’s eye. He remembers Enjolras screaming into the night, furious and robbed, and wonders if Combeferre has the same fire inside him.

“I appreciate it,” Combeferre finally concludes.

Grantaire gives up on his hair and straightens his shirt. “I wish you could swim it instead,” he tries quietly.

They leave the bathroom. Combeferre has already put the coffee pot back in its place and unplugged the fairy lights. They collect their bags in the start of morning’s light, Grantaire’s words caught between them.

As they slip out the front door, bundled in coats and scarves and hats, Combeferre finally says, “It’s a price I’ll gladly pay. But between you and me, me too.”

 

Taper continues through their last week, and they spread out to take up the now-empty JV lanes, leaving them in pairs. Grantaire swims beneath the lane lines to get to Eponine’s lane, because he thinks he’ll pair well with her breast stroke, and also because why the hell not.

Every practice finishes early, even with their periodic distractions. Grantaire surfaces multiple times after his sets to find a dance party taking place on the pool deck, led either by Courfeyrac, Bahorel, or Musichetta - or a combination of the three. They never take the time to dry off and they leave puddles on the tile, water streaming down their legs as they bounce with the echoing music. 

It’s easy somehow, easier than tapers that Grantaire has known before, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out that it’s because he loves these people. There had always been a disconnect between them when Grantaire swam JV. Of course no one said so, but Grantaire felt it, the unspoken rift of only knowing someone at their surface.

But now he’s seen each of these people in intimate moments, important moments. They’ve trusted him to keep their secrets. He’s bailed them out of jail, he’s helped Jehan (who is now hardly ever without a hickey) hook up with Montparnasse, he’s screamed when Enjolras finally flipped off of the diving board -

These people are his friends, and he is, without a doubt, theirs.

And in one week, this will all be over.

“R,” Enjolras calls from two lanes down, brings Grantaire back to himself. Eponine is sitting on the edge of the gutter, sipping from her water bottle, and her toes touch Grantaire’s side as she moves her feet through the water. Grantaire pats her knee and tries not to look distracted as he watches Enjolras fold himself over the lane line, his goggles loose around his neck. “Will you switch to freestyle now?”

Grantaire salutes him. “You got it, Cap.”

Enjolras smiles a little smile as he turns away, and Grantaire tucks it into his mind for safe keeping.

Enjolras stays after every practice. Grantaire watches him from the safety of the lobby, hearing the soft sound of Enjolras’ splashes through the walls. His chest tightens like a screw with each flip Enjolras does, with each reminder of what happened when Grantaire stood to close.

If Enjolras notices Grantaire watching, he doesn’t say so. Grantaire always makes sure that he’s gone before Enjolras leaves the locker room.

 

‘Pool - E,’ Enjolras texts him Thursday night, two days before varsity finals.

‘Plz, important - E,” Enjolras texts him.

Enjolras texts him, ‘I need to tlk 2 u - E.’

Grantaire promptly forgets his plans for the night; on his way out the door, he sees that Eponine’s bedroom door is closed and that Combeferre’s salt-crusted shoes sit on the front mat.

 

The pool clock reads 11:14.

Grantaire finds himself breathless, like he had run through the night instead of driven. He hardly remembers the drive, the stoplights and the turns and the passing headlights. He feels as if he blinked and found himself at the pool, an instinctive response to come when Enjolras calls. And now, when it’s too late, he wonders if he should really do this, if he’s setting himself up for another mistake.

He’s beginning to know the pool in its half lighting as well as he knows it in full fluorescents. It hums softly, its water vibrating in the lights that sit deep in its floor. Enjolras is, once more, nowhere in sight. This time the back door is closed and Enjolras’ backpack and coat sit slumped outside the manager’s office.

Then, Enjolras’ voice echoes quietly, skimming the surface of the water from above like fingers: “Up here.”

Grantaire looks up. Enjolras sits on the high dive, fully clothed in his hoodie and jeans. His boots sit side by side at the bottom of the ladder. Grantaire stares and, for the first time in his life, feels religious.

“You want to talk up there?” he calls, his voice much less graceful than Enjolras’.

Enjolras shifts into a cross-legged position and the board bounces beneath him lightly. His hair looks white in the shining lights. “Yeah,” he says. “Can you come up?”

Grantaire leaves his socks and sneakers tipped onto their sides.

He climbs the ladder in his bare feet, realizing only then how many steps there are. Time messes with him and he feels as if minutes have passed by the time he reaches the top, by the time he carefully lowers himself on the most stable end of the diving board.

This could make him weary of heights, he thinks. There is something uneasy and dangerous about this - maybe it’s the lack of railing or how susceptible the board is to any motion. And yet, there’s Enjolras, sitting easily at the far end, like there are not thirty feet between him and the floor.

“Are you afraid of heights?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire doesn’t move away from the ladder.

“Not usually,” Grantaire says as easily as he can manage. “So, what, is this emergency meeting about me joining the diving team now?”

Enjolras doesn’t respond right away. He goes still, the board sloped beneath his weight, and his silence is loaded, but not in the way with which Grantaire is familiar. There is no lecture building, no anger stirring, but there’s something that shows itself in the slant of Enjolras’ frown. Grantaire waits restlessly, though he’s afraid to move. He lets the impatience turn to static in his fingertips.

As he cards through every terrible and plausible thing that Enjolras could say to him, Enjolras finally tells him, “Marius’ grandfather passed away earlier tonight. He’s flying back home as we speak.”

“He won’t be here this weekend,” Enjolras says. “He won’t be participating in the diving finals on Sunday.”

Then, just when Grantaire understands what exactly Enjolras is saying, Enjolras finishes, “I want to take his place.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says immediately, robbing Enjolras’ words of any time to settle. “Yeah, yes - are you able?”

Enjolras nods and pushes his loose bangs from his eyes. “Bahorel confirmed that my sentence specified the varsity swimming finals,” he says. “The diving finals are fair game - I may as well be participating in a different sport. I’ve already set a qualifying score.”

The diving board moves abruptly beneath them as Grantaire shifts in his excitement. Enjolras, unexpecting, grips the edge of the board to steady himself and it’s a grim reminder of the most obvious problem to this turn of events. There’s fear in his gaze - brief, but there. The subconscious trauma, the collision between his body and the water, all wrong, the wall it has built inside him - Grantaire sees it all pass over Enjolras’ expression in a moment.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Grantaire asks carefully.

Enjolras looks down and smooths his fingers gingerly over the rough texture of the board. There is reverence in his touch, like it’s a wild animal that he’d like to get to know. Grantaire watches his hands, the same hands that he has seen white-knuckled around a megaphone. 

And, because he hates Enjolras’ silence, he says, “It’s not alive, Enjolras. Or whatever you think it is - it’s not a monster. It’s a platform.” He revises, “It’s a stage.”

Enjolras stills. The part in his hair is crooked and inconsistent, hidden in places beneath the curls. Even the air quiets, and so Grantaire continues.

“Montparnasse told me that you interrupted a knife fight without a knife, you can’t tell me that you’re afraid of a plank and some air. I know - ” Grantaire holds up his hands defensively when Enjolras shoots him a look that calls him a hypocrite. “I know, I’m kind of uneasy around this plank and this air, but that’s different. I’m afraid of a lot of things, and you’re you. You’re fearless.”

Enjolras stares at him, troubled lines tracing his brow. Grantaire wants to smooth them away.

“I’m not fearless,” Enjolras confesses quietly. “I was afraid when the police showed up to the riot. I was afraid when they put me in handcuffs and separated me from everyone - ”

“Okay, good,” Grantaire interrupts him and laughs, unsure of how many more confessions he can take - they’re too unbecoming for Enjolras. “Good, that means you’re not crazy, everyone would be afraid of those things. And it would stop them from doing everything you do. But this - ” He motions around them, to all of it, and immediately regrets it when the diving board bounces again, “This has nothing on you, Enjolras. This is an opportunity to rise up and show all of the fuckers who tried to pin you down that they _can’t._ ”

Enjolras’ expression hardens and he sits up a little straighter. Grantaire likes this much better, and so he continues - 

“This is your last year. Make sure they will _never_ forget you.”

Enjolras nods quickly and he runs his hands over the diving board again, now like it’s his. He glances down at it, fingertips catching on the small notches in its surface. The next time he looks up at Grantaire, he’s renewed, the Enjolras that Grantaire knows and would follow anywhere.

“Then I’m ready,” he finally answers. He shifts to his hands and knees, so fluidly that it barely disturbs the board. Grantaire blinks and then Enjolras is close, heart-stoppingly close, and the breath flees Grantaire’s lungs.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says softly, sincerely, and rests their foreheads together. Grantaire stares at the crescent of his lashes and feels the words on his lips as he speaks, “Thank you.”

Grantaire reaches up and touches Enjolras’ cheek because he has to, he has to, or he’ll fall off the diving board. “You don’t have to,” he says, stupidly.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes closed and maybe he’s lost, far away in his imagination, where Grantaire often finds himself. Grantaire keeps himself anchored in the soft skin of Enjolras’ cheek, the slope of his cheek bone, the quiet sound of his breathing. Grantaire’s heart pounds loudly through all of him, hard in the hushed moment between them.

Enjolras comes back to himself all too soon - or too late, long after Grantaire has fallen in love with Enjolras’ hair tickling his forehead. He straightens and opens his eyes, back from somewhere Grantaire will never know.

“Thank you,” he says again.

Grantaire shrugs and carefully shifts back, his fingers unsteady as he works himself back down the ladder. “I’m sure Combeferre would have said the same thing if he was here.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I needed to hear it from you.”

Enjolras says things like this and doesn’t realize that they flood Grantaire’s chest, rearrange his world, fuck him up inside and out.

So Grantaire just laughs and goes backwards down the ladder.

 

Friday night, and the apartments around theirs pulse. Alcohol and weed and laughter seeps in through their vents, lingering and taunting in their dark and empty rooms. Eponine is gone to somewhere she wouldn’t say (Combeferre’s), and Grantaire vows to one last night with the painting on his easel. 

He feels the activity and the parties and the drunken, night-only touches through the floor, feels the electricity around him, and tries to find in it the thing that his painting lacks, the thing that makes him double-take and bite his cheek and rake his fingers through his hair.

He’s taken the coffee pot from the kitchen and has set it on his dresser, drinking straight from it whenever he’s drifted too far and needs to focus again on the canvas. He knows that self-discipline has never been his talent - sometimes he thinks it’s an honest-to-god miracle that he’s convinced himself into free swims and a lower alcohol intake - but concentration remains elusive in the dark hours.

Chewing on the wooden end of his paintbrush, he wishes himself into the lively nights around him. He thinks of plastic cups and crowded rooms and catching Enjolras’ glances in the gaps between heads nodding along to music. He thinks of the night’s romantic twist, how he could maybe, _maybe_ partake in it just once, that maybe he could slip his fingers between Enjolras’ and get away with it. That he could talk into Enjolras’ ear or set his nose against Enjolras’ neck and breathe his cologne and no one would see, no one would give them a passing thought in a full living room. 

Or, no one would see if they were in an empty room. Grantaire’s bedroom.

Grantaire’s frustrated sigh and another sip of coffee punctuate the minutes that have passed. Perhaps a drop of whiskey in his coffee would help, but tomorrow is the varsity finals; he’s sworn, _sworn_ , to keep himself sober. He’s vowed to himself that he will not fuck this up, that he will do everything in his power to make sure he comes through for Enjolras.

For himself.

(No one can make him do anything - but god, does he want to try.)

Grantaire blinks, staring at the brush strokes in the blue water, and knows without a doubt that those are right. They’re so right he can feel them as real as he felt the water splashing around him when Enjolras held the back of his neck and kissed him breathless.

And then, in the shouts that rise through the floor below him and settle like clouds at his feet, he finds the missing piece: the evidence that Enjolras wasn’t born on top of this diving board. His towel draped over a rung on the ladder, his bag forgotten on the floor - the confirmation that Enjolras had to climb to that mountain peak. That he had to ascend and overcome.

Grantaire’s heart pounds as he paints Enjolras’ things, giving them shadows and weight and bold colors to separate them from the background. He leans in close, squinting and painting so vigorously that the bristles on his brush separate; he distantly registers the sound of his text message tone, but he doesn’t answer. He plunges himself into the waters on his canvas.

And when he surfaces, somehow a little breathless and dizzy, disoriented to find himself standing back in his room, his chest swells. He stares at his painting, his palette in one hand and brush in the other, and knows, for the first time in his life, that it’s finished.

He stands there for a good several minutes, finding himself at a loss. Then, finally, he sets his paintbrush in his cup of dirty water, and leaves his palette on the towel spread across his desk. He realizes belatedly that he’s smiling, that he’s pretty damn close to content.

The noise continues around him, and his clock (still lying on the floor) tells him that he’s well into the midnight hour. His phone dings again and he finds a couple of texts from Jehan explaining that Montparnasse just got home from the pool, finally done with helping Enjolras and his diving.

‘He’s acting crabby and reluctant to spend so much time with E after he said he wouldn’t, but I’ll make sure it’s worth his while ;)’ Jehan says. Then, his last text: ‘I got it out of him: he says E is ready for Sunday.’

Grantaire sends him repeated heart emojis, followed by the prayer hands.

And, before he can think twice of it, he sends Enjolras a picture of the finished painting. He types and deletes countless captions, until he dislikes all of them and sends it without any context.

He waits uselessly for Enjolras’ response, standing in the center of his room and eyeing the canvas as critically as he can manage - he sees the imperfections, the crooked lines, the too-thin color cast on the walls, but nothing compels him to fix them.

The bass drops in the party above his head and Enjolras texts him: ‘is it done? - E’

‘finally.’

Grantaire hardly breathes in the two minutes it takes for Enjolras to respond. He’s considering pointing out the imperfections, just so Enjolras knows that he’s aware of them, so Enjolras knows he can fix them if Enjolras so desires - but then Enjolras says the thing that stops him like broken clockwork: 

‘i love it. - E’

Grantaire feels weak in the knees and bites his lower lip to stop the smile that overtakes his lips - he fails. He’s grinning so wide that it hurts in his cheeks.

‘u should sign it. - E’

Grantaire’s hands are shaking, so he decides to do that at a later date. He drops himself onto his bed and laughs breathlessly, since there’s no one around to hear it.

‘how was practice?’

‘u were there. - E’

‘you know what i mean. practice after practice.’

He lies on his bed sheets, pajama shorts and tank-top twisted around his body and the darkness of night shadowed across his wall, and texts Enjolras. A scene straight from a romantic story in which he doesn’t belong.

‘it went well. we yelled at each other a lot, but i’m ready. - E’

Grantaire texts the first thing he thinks of: ‘you are ready.’

‘r u ready 4 tmrw? - E’

Exhaustion reminds Grantaire of the hour, of what’s in store for him tomorrow. He closes his eyes to it, Enjolras’ text burned behind his eyes.

He responds blindly: ‘yep.’

He keeps his eyes closed for so long that he has to squint to read Enjolras’ last message: ‘agreed. - E’

 

Enjolras roams the pool deck in his warm-up pants and jacket, his feet bare and toes painted a new red. There is no swim cap in his pocket and no goggles around his neck and he sits on their designated bench while the rest of them warm-up in their lane; Grantaire tries not to feel sick over it, tries not to boycott the entire event over it.

As he swims his backstroke laps, his eyes fixed on the passing ceiling tiles, he reminds himself over and over that Enjolras’ time will come tomorrow. That, while Enjolras deserves a shot at the regional records and the olympic scouts scattered in the audience, he has to sit out today so that he can shine tomorrow. He instead distracts himself with the fit of his new suit, how horribly tight it is compared to his others - he’s still not sure if it will actually make him swim faster or not.

Grantaire doesn’t feel his impending failure until they’ve completed warm-ups, until the pool is empty and all of the teams have huddled together, until Enjolras stands beside him in their circle and sets his hand on Grantaire’s back, between his shoulder blades. His heart begins to pound and his muscle memory slowly falls apart; the thought of swimming backstroke seems foreign, odd and unfamiliar in his unpracticed limbs. His goggles sit on his forehead and he looks around at the other faces in their circle, pink-cheeked and fire-eyed and red-lipped. He can’t tell if everyone else is nervous as well.

“All right,” Enjolras says firmly, over the noise of the crowded stands. Combeferre stands on his other side, dressed identically, and looks up from his clipboard. “All right, this is it. We’ve all worked and overworked to get to this point.”

Grantaire’s chest swells and Enjolras’ fingers spread across his back, over his damp skin. He watches Enjolras from the corner of his eye, committing his words, his voice, to memory.

“Take this moment,” Enjolras continues and clenches his free hand into a fist, gesturing, “and make it yours. All of you are here because you deserve to be, because you are more than good enough.”

Grantaire feels as if those words are meant specifically for him, and so he works them through his head, over and over, until he believes them.

“Everything we’ve done this year, everything, has brought us to this day, to this moment,” Enjolras says, voice rising, and the circle around him nods. Courfeyrac clenches his fist as well and gestures as Enjolras does. “This is your platform, your stage. Let’s show everyone what we’re made of.”

Grantaire feels weak-kneed when he hears his own words in Enjolras’.

“All in!” Joly declares and puts his hand in the center of the circle. Everyone follows suit, hands stacked on top of each other, Enjolras’ on top of Grantaire’s.

“Let’s kick the day’s ass!” Courfeyrac concludes and, simultaneously, they all shout, all roar, and throw their hands into the air. 

Grantaire’s heart continues to pound, but now for an entirely different reason.

The relay is first. He, Joly, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel gather at their designated lane block, bouncing and restless and breathless in anticipation. Joly carefully shakes out his legs as he adjusts his goggles on his face. The other teams slowly assemble at their own blocks and Grantaire tries not to look around at them; when he fails, Courfeyrac sets both hands on his shoulders and leans in close.

“You got this,” he says, grinning wide, high on the electric and excited atmosphere, running on adrenaline. “I’ll be right behind you - we’ve done this so many times we could do this in our sleep.”

Grantaire laughs. “Why do you think I chose backstroke? It’s basically sleeping while kicking your feet.”

Courfeyrac grins wide and pats Grantaire’s cheek. “That’s the spirit,” he says.

The first whistle sounds and Joly steps onto the block; Grantaire smacks his back as he does. Then they’re in line, Joly, then Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel, reminiscent of countless days before, but this is different, this is so different. This can’t be written off as practice, as a exercise that is ultimately pointless - this is real, this is where it counts, this could affect a future or two. The room knows it; the crowd hushes and settles, and the teams that stand at the opposite end of the pool go quiet, watching.

Everyone, watching.

Joly bends over at the mark, fingers hooked around the edge of the block, and Grantaire meets Enjolras’ gaze from across the pool. 

Grantaire draws in a deep breath and holds it.

The whistle goes again, and Joly leaps. 

The pool comes alive again, echoing in roars and cheers as the butterfliers go. Enjolras drops to his knees at the other end and the others lean over around him, all of them screaming for Joly as Joly works himself through the water, keeping himself at a tie with the swimmers at his sides. Grantaire is shouting with them, adjusting his goggles, trying to keep himself afloat in his pounding heart and his shaking fingertips.

(“Because you deserve to be here.”)

Courfeyrac smacks his ass one last time before he steps up onto the block, Joly still holding them neck and neck with the others. 

Another deep breath, but he lets this one go.

Joly passes the half mark in the lane and Grantaire bends. The lane block is rough beneath his fingers, the texture of which diving boards are made.

Across the pool, Enjolras gives him a nod.

Grantaire counts Joly’s final strokes. 

(“Because you are more than good enough.”)

Joly hits the wall and Grantaire goes. 

He breaks the surface of the water and finds a familiar silence. He kicks his legs through it and turns over, watching the bubbles he leaves in his wake and, in the stillness, remembers himself. He rises to the surface, the commotion above growing and growing until he’s up and breathing, hearing the shouts and cheers through the water in his ears. 

He kicks, he works his arms, watching the ceiling, the droplets of water from the splashes around him to indicate that he’s still keeping up with the others. He kicks, _kicks_ , aching and already fatigued but he wants to break free, he wants to give them a lead, he doesn’t want to fuck this up.

The flags pass and he counts, catching sight of Enjolras’ blond hair before he turns over and flips. 

He hears Enjolras’ voice above the others, bringing a determined life to his legs as he pushes himself off of the wall.

He pants, his arms burning. It hurts him all over, the sprinting, the weight of giving his all, but he’s there, he’s almost there, and his form is perfect, his back arched, his fingers together, and there are the flags, and - 

The wall, then Courfeyrac, diving in a perfect slope above his head and into the water.

Beside him, the other swimmers finish after Courfeyrac is already gone.

His legs shake as Joly helps pull him from the water. Joly is laughing breathlessly and holding him and Bahorel gives his ass a slap before he steps up to the block. Grantaire is dizzy, misaligned, but grinning, hot on excitement. 

It comes down to Bahorel - they’re racing for first, in direct competition with the team in lime green suits three lanes down. By the end of the relay, Grantaire is back inside himself and bouncing, screaming himself raw beside Courfeyrac and Joly, and Bahorel cuts through the water, faster and faster until -

He hits; the clock ranks them at first.

They explode.

Wet arms and puddle-adorned feet and cheers splitting through his ears - celebrations, until he feels the smooth fabric of their warm-up jackets, the heat of someone not yet wet - arms around him, and the smell of Enjolras’ shampoo on the collar of his jacket.

 

Grantaire steps outside during the event just before his 500. He doesn’t have long, he doesn’t need long - he just needs a moment to make sure he’s all there, a moment to cope and calm, to stand in the November chill and replay Enjolras’ words in his head again and again. 

The afternoon, topped at a balmy thirty degrees fahrenheit, sits cold over his warm skin, a nice change from the humid pool air. A huddle of smokers, dressed in their navy swim team parkas, hovers close to the door and Grantaire makes sure to stand far enough away from them; the grass touches his toes and bends under his sandals. The pale sunlight nests warm on his cheekbones.

Enjolras finds him after a couple minutes, when Grantaire has his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the brick wall of the building. He hears Enjolras’ footsteps but doesn’t acknowledge him right away, instead finishing his latest playthrough of Enjolras’ words, down to the way Enjolras’ mouth looked around them. 

“I would offer you a cigarette,” Enjolras murmurs the moment he finishes and opens his eyes, “but, as your captain, I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

Enjolras has leaned himself against the wall beside Grantaire, still dressed in his warm-up attire and barefoot. He watches Grantaire closely from the corner of his eye, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His bangs, now pinned away from his face, catch the breeze, and he’s squinting subtly against the sunlight. 

“If you’re offering anything, I’ll take a shot of something strong,” Grantaire says with a weak smile. “Cigarettes never did anything for my nerves.”

Enjolras doesn’t smile. Instead, he gives Grantaire a pause, and then a soft, “Are you good?”

Grantaire nods, draws in a deep breath that fills his lungs. He closes his eyes and focuses on it, the air that presses his lungs to his ribs, holds it in until his heart slows. Then, he gradually exhales, deflates himself, and feels new. “I’m not sure I’d say I’m good,” he says and opens his eyes again. “But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Enjolras nods and straightens, turns towards Grantaire to give him his full attention, and sets his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire wishes he wouldn’t; Grantaire wishes he would also lean in and press their foreheads together, just like that night on the diving board.

“You are good,” Enjolras reminds him. “And you are ready. You’ve worked for this, R. I’ll be at the end of the lane, keeping your pace. I’ll be with you through the whole thing.”

Grantaire swallows hard.

And then, because this is ending, this is all ending, he leans in and rests his forehead against Enjolras’. Enjolras doesn’t move away. He only reacts with a soft squeeze to Grantaire’s shoulders. 

 

They enter the pool together, one heat before Grantaire’s. At Enjolras’ side, Grantaire hears the crowd’s cheering and imagines that it’s for him. That they all know the monumental stakes behind the next twenty minutes of Grantaire’s life and they’re all ready, all there to encourage him to the finish line. Grantaire takes in another deep breath, this one damp and warm and not at all unlike the air already inside him, and stands a little taller.

And then, Enjolras touches his lower back and leaves his side, goes to collect the counter card from the official and to strip off his jacket.

Grantaire is left alone, and he waits for that to hit him, waits for the self doubt and the crippling disbelief in his ability to do anything, much less something as difficult as this.

The pool moves around him, bodies rushing to their place, bare feet slapping against the slippery floor, goggles snapping into place. And it never comes. Instead, the warm anticipation expands in his chest, stoked and ready.

Grantaire stands alone, caught in the eye of the commotion, and he still wants this.

He still wants to do this.

He goes to his starting block, tucking the damp curls of his hair into his swim cap as he does. When he passes their bench, Combeferre gives him a high five, and then goes with the rest of their team to join Enjolras at the other end of his lane.

Whistle one: he steps onto the block, curling his toes against the ridges in its surface. He’s unsure if the noise quiets around him, or if the noise inside him grows louder. The water is still, reflecting the perfect lines on the ceiling and the flags positioned above; there are six other swimmers, a low number, low enough that a bet for himself wouldn’t be too outlandish.

He presses the goggles tight to his face and looks up the lane line, up and up until it brings him to the opposite end of the pool. To his team standing and huddled close to the water, letting out a ‘whoop’ when he meets their gaze. To Combeferre, fully dressed and dry, standing where he shouldn’t be, but he gives Grantaire a solid nod. To Enjolras kneeling at the edge of the deck, the counter in his hand.

The mark: Grantaire bends over and feels pixels in his fingertips when he grips the edge of the starting block. 

His blood rushes in his ears.

This, too, will be over soon enough.

Whistle two: Grantaire bounds from the block.

His landing his rough; he neglects to arch, nerves sitting stiff in his legs and back, and he enters the pool with a large splash. It starts him behind the others, but he neglects the urge to catch up with them and instead paces himself. He has the stamina, he reminds himself, even Combeferre had told him so, patience, he’ll make up the time.

He has to.

He _has_ to.

On the first flip turn, he tries not to get distracted by Enjolras’ knuckles, the prominent tendons that thread up his hand as he holds the counter against the wall.

Grantaire is still far too tense, and his mind works with the clarity that the rest of him can’t yet manage. Back and forth, fingers taut and together, a pace that starts as the dull ache in his thighs, pointed toes - he’s keeping ground, not surrendering anymore distance between himself and the others, but he knows he’s going to hurt towards the end. He adjusts himself when Enjolras’ counter marks him at halfway, allows himself an extra breath so that he can relax, just a bit, just enough.

Enough - (“Because you are more than good enough.”)

Freestyle is not his stroke, this is not his event. He feels that in the weight that rises to his arms, in the cramps twining around his calves. He is a substitute, a stand-in, a plan B.

And that alone would have been enough to sink him months ago, to turn him sloppy and breathless. He recognizes the inferiority and its drowning sensation, the certainty that he can and will fuck this up, too - when will this end, he would give anything to just stand up and breathe.

Lap thirteen, and Enjolras begins to shake the counter card - not urgent, but enough to make Grantaire kick harder.

He turns; he closes his eyes and sees Enjolras shouting from the steps of the dean’s building, he sees Combeferre’s fist in the air, he sees Eponine, bruised and wild-eyed.

He is a plan B, and he is here to take it all.

Grantaire pushes off of the wall and it’s gone: he leaves the fatigue in his legs and the strain in his muscles behind, in the bubbles that mark his trail. He checks himself one more time, perfects the slope of his spine, the angle of his elbow on his upstroke. He’s tired, there’s no doubt about it - the breaths hurt as he draws them into his lungs and there is an uncomfortable heat in his chest that he can’t shake. His goggles are fogged, clouded so badly he can barely see his lane line drawn at the bottom of the pool.

But this will all be over soon enough.

And he will come out of the pool either better or worse than when he dove into it. 

Lap seventeen: Enjolras pumps the card incessantly against the pool wall, plunging his arm so deep into the water that Grantaire can nearly see his shoulder.

On either side of him, Grantaire sees the bubbles left in the wake of his opponents.

Better, or worse.

He turns: he will be better if he knows that he wrung himself dry, that he gave it his all.

And so he swims. He swims as fast as he can, for Combeferre, who has seen the sharp edge of handcuffs and his dream swept out from beneath him as easily as a rug.

For Enjolras, who has cried into the night, who has torn down the walls built inside him with his bare hands, who has thrown himself into the fire to change an injustice that he could not ignore.

And for himself, because he has had only two drinks in the past week, because he has found pride in the brush strokes on his own canvas and the numbers attached to his own laps -

Because he has found a home in Enjolras’ forehead pressed against his own, in the smell of shampoo that sticks to Enjolras’ jacket collar.

The counter is red, the last lap; Grantaire draws in his last breath before the turns and hears screams, the chorus of his team, of his friends, close to his ears.

The other swimmers flip beside him.

He drains himself. He kicks as hard as he can, turns his arms as fast as he’s able, he breathes less, until it makes him dizzy. There he goes, leaving himself in the water behind him, but he’s swimming. His lungs feel tight and exhaustion weighs like lead in his bones and he spends himself like currency -

But he’s winning.

He blinks and sees the end of the lane marked beneath him.

And he hits the wall so hard it radiates up his fingertips.

Grantaire surfaces with his eyes closed, gasping audibly. The air rushes into him and he trembles, clinging to the gutter as the pieces of him slowly catch up. Voices around him - screaming, white noise, but filtered, like heard from another room, hushed under the tides crashing over his head.

And then, with trembling hands, he pulls his goggles from his eyes.

He’s beaten his time by ten entire seconds; he’s placed third in the heat, beaten only by the two end lanes.

Enjolras is there first, far ahead of everyone else, beaming wide, his white teeth, his hair wild around his face as he drops to his knees beside the pool and reaches for Grantaire to help him from the water. Grantaire feels like a puddle and he laughs, breathless and content and proud, a better version of himself than he was less than ten minutes ago.

He more or less falls into Enjolras, skin wet and swim cap lopsided, goggles forgotten on the floor. The rest of the team catches up when he presses his nose to Enjolras’ neck, feels Enjolras’ nose on his ear, hears Courfeyrac and Bahorel screaming above everyone else. Courfeyrac kisses his head.

He holds onto Enjolras until they’re ushered away from the lane, his fingers spread against Enjolras’ back.

 

Combeferre hugs him, too, long after the rest of him has finally climbed out of the pool and collected back inside himself. His jacket his warm and he smells of cologne, his words sincere and quiet and for Grantaire alone as they fall on his ear: “Thank you.”

 

The 100 backstroke comes when the sun has turned golden, ready for its last hours of the day. Grantaire still feels the 500 in his bones, thrumming like the heavy bass of an electric night, but this is his domain. This is his event, it always has been. 

It was the start to all of this, the reason that Enjolras pulled him from the pool back in August and brought him into the manager’s office. From the season’s first practice to last night, on the high dive with Enjolras’ cheek in his hand, this was the beginning.

From across the pool, at the opposite end of his lane, Courfeyrac cups his mouth and shouts, “Do it in your sleep, R!”

Whistle one: Grantaire shakes what he can of the 500 from his legs and steps into the pool.

The mark: he grips the handles on the block and sets his feet on the edge of the pool, pulls himself into his loaded-spring position. He’s tired, but tells himself that he’s not. He tells himself that this is his last event, that this, like everything else, will be over soon enough.

That this was the beginning, and now it’s the end.

His chest swells.

Whistle two: he propels backwards, dives back into the pool, and goes.

The entire swim passes in a reverie, punctuated only by the glimpses he catches of his teammates before he turns over to flip. The exhaustion inside him is so deep that he numbs to it, breaking the last of himself for these final moments. He blinks behind his goggles, water falling onto his face as he lifts his arms into the air, and thinks of the year. The strange year, the nights in Enjolras’ car, the rings on Montparnasse’s fingers, the jars of paperclips in Enjolras’ bedroom. 

He goes underwater to turn; his body continues, but his mind lingers. His thoughts stick close to the wall, feet beneath the surface of the water, remembering how soft Enjolras’ feet felt against his whenever they touched that one afternoon. 

The strange year and the even stranger afternoon, when Enjolras broke through himself and neither of them could really swim through their excitement. He imagines staying underwater and kissing Enjolras there, Enjolras’ hair untamed and impossibly soft as it spreads in the water and winds around Grantaire’s fingers like seaweed. He imagines Enjolras’ chlorine mouth and the water between their lips as they kiss, the absolute silence in their lagging movements, hands everywhere, a moment so incredible and lost to the rest of the world.

The final flags: Grantaire counts his strokes, elongates himself as he gets closer and closer to the end.

He touches the score pad: he’s beaten himself by four seconds and ranked first.

And then, it’s over.

 

Enjolras barely leaves his side after that. 

He’s there when Grantaire slowly brings himself to the end of the lanes to cheer Eponine through her 100 breaststroke and their relay through the 100 freestyle. He’s there when the meet is over, when the record breakers are announced. He’s there when Grantaire zips up his warm-up hoodie, there when Grantaire carries his swim bag into the locker room to change, there later, to recommend that Grantaire stretch after he complains of aching thighs.

When they board the bus and the team’s voices carry around them, over them, Enjolras stands so close that his gym bag brushes the backs of Grantaire’s legs. Grantaire only hears Courfeyrac making noise about celebratory Jell-O shots on the bus once Enjolras is on the opposite side of the aisle, tucked into his seat and close to Combeferre.

“Courfeyrac, that’s illegal,” Enjolras announces, captainly, though not at all like he cares. The bus begins to move.

“Aye, captain,” Courfeyrac concedes loudly from the back of the bus, too loudly, so loudly that the driver hears him. “We always keep to the law. We’ll save our nonsense for tomorrow. R, I see you have two hands, please come back here and help me read through our newest state legislations.”

As Grantaire stands and balances himself by gripping the seat headrests, Combeferre turns in his seat to give Courfeyrac a look that pleads him to learn discretion.

Grantaire crouches with Courfeyrac in the back seat and helps him sort through and uncap a cooler-ful of Jell-O shots. He’s grateful for the distraction, until he volunteers all too quickly to deliver the special non-alcoholic shot to Enjolras.

Then, once they’re all discretely distributed throughout the bus, Courfeyrac takes his place at the head of the aisle and announces, “What a fan-fucking-tastic year!”

Grantaire ducks behind the seat in front of him to take his shot. Beside him, Eponine laughs when hers catches on the sides. He smells the chlorine in her damp hair and the fatigue lingers in his calves and his fingers are blue once he scoops the last of the Jell-O from his own cup.

Soon after Courfeyrac sits down, Enjolras texts him. ‘stay w/ me @ the pool 4 a bit? - E’

Grantaire looks across the aisle, tries to catch Enjolras’ eye, but Enjolras has his gaze fixed on the window, on the street lamps that pass and splash him briefly in bronze. His hand sits on the arm rest, his fingers secured between Combeferre’s; he doesn’t move when Grantaire responds: ‘yea.’

 

“Should I smoke or swim?” Enjolras asks him, a shadow in the dark lobby. He stands still in front of the window, inky like the stillness around them, as black as the bottomless doorway to the locker room. The lights outside reflect off of the pool water, giving the illusion that they’re just as much inside as they are outside.

Grantaire stands next to him, his heart drumming loudly in his ears, vibrating in the utter silence of the dark building. “You swim, I’ll smoke,” he offers quietly. “I’ve swam all day.”

“Swim might be an overstatement for what I have in mind,” Enjolras says quietly. He is such a shadow that Grantaire can’t even see his mouth move; he can just hear the soft, wistful tone in his voice, like most of him exists elsewhere. “All day, I wanted to swim a lap of the butterfly. I would have given anything to do it. But now, I just want to float in the shallow end.”

“Then let’s float.”

Grantaire changes in the locker room; Enjolras wore a swimsuit beneath his pants for the whole day. He has the pool lit by the time Grantaire emerges in his cold, damp suit, and offers Grantaire the pack of cigarettes in his lighter from a secluded pocket in his gym bag.

Grantaire laughs. “In here?”

Enjolras shrugs faintly. “I’m not in a rule-following mood,” he says.

And so, Grantaire sits on the ladder at the shallow end, perched at the same rung on which he sat that fateful Saturday, when Enjolras first flipped off of the diving board. Enjolras pencils into the water and then goes lifeless, releasing the tension from his arms and legs until he slowly rises to the surface and floats easily atop the quiet water.

Grantaire lights a cigarette and makes sure he sets the rest of the pack far enough from the water. Once he’s settled and smoke-lunged, he looks around at the emptiness, the silence, the reminder that they are alone, that everyone exited the bus and left long ago. 

The pool clock only reads 9:16; the sky outside is dark.

Alone. Grantaire dwells on this as he watches where the water touches Enjolras’ skin, holds him gently, as if trying to make amends for its violence all those years ago. It runs through his hair, spreads it into a fan around his scalp, and brushes against his cheeks, his ribs, his thighs. 

Grantaire takes a long, envious drag of the cigarette.

Enjolras keeps his eyes closed as he lies on his bed of water, as he trusts it to carry him leisurely around the shallow end. When he passes close to Grantaire, Grantaire sees his chest rise and assumes that he’s breathing in the secondhand smoke. When he passes close, Grantaire stares at the shadows that collect in his divots, in his own pools by his collar bones and hip bones. 

When he passes too close, Grantaire fidgets with the cigarette or with the water gathered in his lap so that he doesn’t reach out to touch Enjolras.

Enjolras slowly stands as Grantaire puts his first cigarette out in the gutter, dousing the butt before he sets it on the pool deck beside the lighter. The water makes a small commotion around Enjolras, clinging to his skin as best as it can. He straightens a few feet away and blinks slowly at Grantaire, as if he had actually been sleeping while he floated.

“Did that work as well as nicotine?” Grantaire asks quietly. 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything right away. He stares at Grantaire, really focuses on him, which is nothing new - but the softness in his gaze is what Grantaire finds disarming. He stares, not to criticize, not to measure, but to - well, Grantaire isn’t sure. He should laugh, he should look away, perform his usual parlor tricks to divert the intensity in Enjolras’ gaze, but he can’t quite manage. 

He can’t quite manage anything. Enjolras watches him like that and catches him like a moth to a light. Over the past few months, he has done many horrible things, just as many great things - he has done so many things, most of which he thought he would never do. But he stares at Enjolras and Enjolras stares at him and he can remember none of it. 

He was born here, he will die here: this moment is the only thing he has ever known, the only thing he knows, the only thing he will know. He has never been so certain of anything.

Until Enjolras shakes his head.

Grantaire blinks and the moment breaks like porcelain - it’s over. 

His lungs feel tight, like he hasn’t been breathing.

This could very well be the last time he will be in a pool with Enjolras. He thinks this and he must look as afraid as he feels because Enjolras frowns. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says and then finally laughs.

Enjolras’ expression doesn’t change. “R, I need to ask you something,” he instead says, quickly like he has been waiting to say it.

Grantaire answers him honestly: “Anything.”

Whatever it is, it doesn’t come right away. Its delay tightens like a screw in the air and Enjolras moves closer, prompting Grantaire’s heart into a faster, dizzying beat. The water ripples around Enjolras’ hips as he moves, swirling loosely in his wake, and he doesn’t stop when Grantaire think he will. He comes closer, closer, and Grantaire was in his arms only hours earlier, so he should not be so affected by Enjolras’ increasing proximity, should not be pirouetting in his head with every step that Enjolras takes towards him.

Enjolras finally stops, just within arm’s reach. He still stares at Grantaire like that, like that, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows. Tries not to look like the mess that he’s becoming.

“What did you really think of that Saturday afternoon, when we kissed?” Enjolras asks him, voice level, careful. When Grantaire doesn’t immediately react (or show Enjolras the way his heart leaps), Enjolras continues. “I’ve been thinking about when we talked about it the first time. I didn’t give you a chance to tell me what you felt; you responded mainly to my cues. I was also stressed and not at all in the right mind to discuss something so important.”

He draws in a slow, calming breath. “I’ve realized that part of what had made you so upset that night was not the kiss itself, but maybe how one-sided I had made that conversation,” he continues quietly, and Grantaire still can’t look away.

Enjolras stares relentlessly, right through him, and concludes: “So, in your most brutal honesty, I’d like to know what you really thought of that afternoon.” Then, quieter: “Please.”

The clock ticks past 9:46. 

A minute closer to tomorrow, a minute closer to this end.

Enjolras’ wet hair curls against the back of his neck.

(There is a world where Grantaire says the right thing.)

When Grantaire opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what it’s going to say, but he knows it’s going to be brutally honest - dissecting, bleeding out on the floor, a dying man’s last prayer honest.

“I had wanted it before it happened and, now that it’s happened, I want to do nothing else.”

Grantaire shows Enjolras his heart and Enjolras’ eyes widen.

“Really?” Enjolras asks, breathless.

Grantaire laughs weakly, catching up with himself, arriving all too late to his own car crash. “Yeah. Jesus, sorry, but it’s true, and only now that we may not see each other very much anymore - ”

“Can we do it again?”

Grantaire lags. “What?”

Enjolras crouches to his level, moving closer, keeping his hands to himself, but like it hurts him. “Can we do it again?” he asks, eyes so blue and so clear that the pool beneath him pales.

“Now?”

“Now.”

Grantaire’s mouth gapes. There is always a world where he does the right thing, says the right thing, but there’s no way it’s this one. But Enjolras is close, so close that he’s almost leaning into Grantaire’s legs, and he feels like a battery run dry: what does he do now?

Finally, he manages the only thing that comes to his mind: “Yeah, yes.”

Enjolras’ hand moves to the back of his neck, fingers cool and wet on his dry skin, catching immediately in his hair, and he pulls Grantaire into the pool. The water splashes around Grantaire’s unceremonious movements and then they’re kissing again. Enjolras sets his other hand on Grantaire’s side, slots his fingers between Grantaire’s ribs and kisses him feverishly.

Again: chlorine lips, chlorine teeth, tongue, mouths. Grantaire unravels and kisses Enjolras hard, his hands fitting on both sides of Enjolras’ jaw, fingers spread over Enjolras’ soft cheeks, where the pool had held him only moments ago. This time, they can stand, no kicking legs and treading water, just them and the water rushing out of the gaps between them, afraid to be caught or crushed. 

Enjolras crouches further, brings them closer to the surface of the pool. Grantaire feels the blood flushed high in his cheeks, feels Enjolras’ breaths landing on his lips, Enjolras’ fingers flexing and tightening on the back of his neck. He feels, he doesn’t think, can’t think, not with Enjolras’ knee slotting between his thighs, the spaces between them relenting, closing.

One of them slips; they kiss underwater. Grantaire is already breathless, but he goes to his knees on the pool floor. They kiss through water, the weightlessness trying to pry them apart, trying to pull Enjolras to the surface while anchoring Grantaire in its depths. But Enjolras kicks and they kiss so hard that Grantaire’s teeth press against his lips, just like before, and he moves a hand into Enjolras’ hair, fingers tangled in it like it’s fine, soft twine.

It’s silent down here. It’s soft and Grantaire opens his eyes and just sees colors, everything cooled in the water, the pink on Enjolras’ cheeks only barely prevailing - like he’s in his own painting. Enjolras bites his lower lip and that’s soft, too, his touch moving from the back of Grantaire’s neck to Grantaire’s shoulder like silk. Grantaire has never felt something so tender in the world above.

They kiss, movements cushioned in the water, though no less eager, until Grantaire has to drag them to the surface for breath. He frames Grantaire’s jaw in both hands and gasps for air, close enough to hear Enjolras do the same.

They breathe audibly, pulling from the small gap between their mouths, close like they’re both thinking of another kiss.

Grantaire trembles in the water, unsure if it’s from the lack of air or Enjolras’ thumb drawing back-and-forth lines over his shoulder.

The water runs slowly down their cheeks, their necks. Grantaire feels disoriented above water, like his insides are still underwater-weightless, and he grounds himself in the velvet skin on Enjolras’ cheeks.

Then, finally, when their breathing has calmed, when their chests no longer heave and they can hear the pool’s quiet white noise, Enjolras breathes, “Fuck.”

Grantaire smiles and laughs, dropping a hand to finally touch the shadow gathered in Enjolras’ collar bone. “Well said,” he says, and Enjolras laughs too.

“Talking is usually one of my talents,” Enjolras laments quietly, butting his forehead against Grantaire’s. He then ducks, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s neck, his one hand moving lower on Grantaire’s side.

Grantaire goes immediately dizzy. “Well,” he tries, voice as composed as broken glass. “Well - I’m sure you’ll - if you - oh my god, Enjolras I’m trying to say you might have a talent for dirty talk, but fucking fuck - ”

Enjolras’ pleased little laugh collects in the curve of Grantaire’s neck, and Enjolras really did say it best - _fuck._

“Enj,” Grantaire murmurs, flushed high in his cheeks as Enjolras kisses his neck slowly. “Enj, you - if you don’t want to move quickly or do anything too soon or just want to go to bed at a decent time tonight, you have to stop soon - ”

He says this as he grips Enjolras’ shoulder and hair tightly, wanting.

But Enjolras does stop. He sighs softly against Grantaire’s neck and then slowly straightens; Grantaire tries not to dwell on the new darkness in his eyes.

“You’re right,” Enjolras agrees, voice distractingly rough. His hand stops at Grantaire’s hip. “I should rest for tomorrow. And we - ” He pauses, looking at Grantaire carefully, wearily.

Grantaire simply nods and brushes the stray bangs from Enjolras’ forehead. Because he can.

“We’re good,” he murmurs, reassures, stardust in his fingertips. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Enjolras smiles in the corners of his lips and nods, then leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire laughs, still shaking. “Better than nicotine?” he breathes.

Enjolras grins and Grantaire feels his teeth. “I might just kick the habit.”

 

Grantaire showers, runs his fingers over his recently shaved his legs and wonders if they really did help him today, and then falls into bed that night, electric. His blood runs neon, hot with the memory of Enjolras’ hands on his skin, the lingering taste of chlorine on his tongue. He feels new, like someone else, smiling so wide he it split through him.

And then, with his sweatpants pooled around his ankles, he focuses on Enjolras’ small laugh, still stuck to his neck, and touches himself until he can’t see straight.

 

Grantaire wakes and feels yesterday in him like a hangover, everywhere aching with the weight of stones. His alarm clock is muffled, its red numbers glowing diffused from beneath last night’s discarded t-shirt. He listens to it in the darkness, collecting bits of the past day until he comes to the memory of Enjolras mirrored against him: their foreheads, their mouths, their hips, all lined up.

Grantaire bites his lower lip, smiles, and slowly unearths himself.

The diving finals are close enough that they can manage themselves into cars for the trip; Eponine sits alone at the kitchen table, a piece of nutella toast in her hand, and tells him, “Combeferre said we could ride with him and Enjolras. They’ll be here to bring us to the pool in five.”

(And the fact that Combeferre offers Grantaire the passenger’s seat in Enjolras’ car gives Grantaire the suspicion that he knows about last night.)

Enjolras is stiff all morning, only half there, speaking when he needs to and nodding when he doesn’t. His hair is pinned back from his face and he wears his same warm up jacket and pants; Grantaire’s heart pounds around him, though he wishes it wouldn’t. 

He stays close to Enjolras, this odd half-Enjolras, as they work through the last of their business at the pool, barely managing to keep up through his ache. And he tries not to stare for too long at Enjolras’ chapped and bitten lips.

When Enjolras climbs into the driver’s seat, Grantaire offers, “Do you want me to drive?”

Enjolras finally looks at him, eyes clear, and he shakes his head. “No, thank you,” he murmurs. “It’ll help calm me down.”

Grantaire simply nods and rests his arm on the center console, settling into his seat. He stares up at the PRIDE button on Enjolras’ visor.

(It does nothing for Grantaire’s heart when, halfway through the twenty-minute drive, Enjolras sets his hand on his. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket - no doubt a message from Eponine that he plans to ignore.)

Enjolras requests a moment outside with Grantaire on their way into the building, their jackets zipped up high to their throats as they move with the current of divers and teams and coaches flooding up the sidewalk. He takes Grantaire’s hand and no one thinks twice, no one questions it when Enjolras then leads the two of them the crowd, into solitude, his bare fingers cold in the November air. 

The sun has just risen in the colorless sky and clouds pass in front of their mouths when they breathe. Grantaire’s thighs ache with every step but he follows Enjolras around the building, to the side that sits in the direct sunlight.

The voices and excited footsteps echo behind them and Enjolras’ fingers loosen in Grantaire’s. The frost-bitten grass whispers beneath their sandals and Enjolras picks a spot along the building’s siding upon which he can lean, right beneath a low window. He still doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand, and so Grantaire stays close; his heart has not beat normally since he left his apartment.

Enjolras tips his head back and breathes in the quiet, his chest swelling with it. He closes his eyes, his cheeks pink in the cold, and Grantaire watches his breath fog. There, then gone.

Like yesterday: there, now gone.

Like this season - there. Now gone.

“This will be over soon enough,” Grantaire says quietly in the silence. “I don’t know if that’s what you want to hear right now, but it’s what I told myself when I got on the starting block yesterday.”

Enjolras opens his eyes and gives Grantaire his full attention.

Grantaire realizes then that his pounding heart may not be due entirely to Enjolras’ proximity. He’s nervous.

“Are you nervous?” Grantaire asks, whispers, so that not even the nearby trees will hear Enjolras’ answer.

Enjolras takes a moment to respond. “No,” he finally murmurs. “I want to do this. It just feels like - magnitudes, in your word. I feel as if whatever happens in there might change my life somehow. And I want to be ready.”

Grantaire wants to drop to his knees. Instead, he nods and lifts Enjolras’ hand to kiss his knuckle.

(When did he get so bold? Maybe he knows something about life-changing days, too.)

Enjolras gives Grantaire a little, secret smile, one that Grantaire likes to imagine was crafted for him alone.

“I thought about you a lot last night,” Enjolras admits quietly, and his cheeks look pinker than before. “It was a good distraction. You and my speech for tonight.”

Grantaire laughs. “Glad to be of use and on the same level of importance as your monologue,” he says. He doesn’t feel the need to divulge the details of his own night.

Enjolras fits his free hand on the back of Grantaire’s neck and leads him in for a soft kiss. It’s tentative, more exposing of the fact that they have no idea what they’re doing with each other, that Enjolras’ hands have pressed light bruises into Grantaire’s hip bones, but they have not talked about this at all.

Grantaire leans himself into Enjolras and knows that this could end at any moment. That Enjolras could walk out of this pool hours from now and never want to touch Grantaire again. The anxiety looms, a jump start in his heart beat, but Enjolras’ lips are warm and taste barely of nicotine and, fuck him, Enjolras is a _really_ good kisser.

Enjolras bites Grantaire’s lower lip and breathes, “May I see the painting after dinner tonight?”

The implications of that warm Grantaire from his head to the toes, nulling the November air.

“Sure,” he says as easily as he can and bites Enjolras’ lip in return.

Enjolras lets out a quick, shuddering breath that Grantaire thinks he’ll hear in his dreams from now on. They kiss once more, Enjolras’ hand going hot on the back of his neck, before Enjolras shifts and separates them.

The biting air rushes between them and Enjolras’ expression hardens into a resolve so firm that the sun shines a little brighter on him. Grantaire smiles before he even speaks, pressing his thumbs to Enjolras’ cheeks. He then lets him go and Enjolras says, “I will show them that their corruption has failed them.”

It’s dramatic, overly so, but Grantaire suddenly believes with his entire being that Enjolras is diving for more than himself. That he will take to the board and stand there, alone, and the board will no longer be his monster - it will be something much larger.

 

The hallway to the pool is long, decorated in distant splashing that sounds like shattering dishware, extended voices, and that persistent smell of chlorine. Groups in swimsuits and jackets push past them, their bare feet slapping the tile, their hands unwrapping protein bars and holding water bottles and paper cups. Posters adorn the walls, varying school and community announcements, welcome posters and tournament information.

Through it all, Enjolras holds Grantaire’s hand.

And when they finally reach the doorway, the mouth to the pool, which reflects the light cast through the windowed ceiling, Enjolras stands with his shoulders straight, his head tipped back. He squeezes Grantaire’s hand and then lets go, crossing the deck to find a spot for his things beside the pool and a spot for himself in the line behind the diving board.

 

Montparnasse has earned himself a spot on the team’s bench. He sits close to the end, thigh-to-thigh with Eponine and a pointed gap on his other side. Grantaire’s heart is still pounding when he takes it, when Eponine immediately leans over Montparnasse and gives him a raised-eyebrow look.

“What?” she says plainly. She knows Grantaire still hasn’t read her message. “ _What?_ ”

“I don’t want to hear this from either of you,” Grantaire counters. Beside Eponine, Combeferre clears his throat. Montparnasse adjusts his jacket collar to better hide the bite mark on his throat.

“Okay, fair, but last I heard you had spontaneously kissed him, and now he’s holding your hand and pulling you aside for minutes alone,” Eponine says, but Grantaire barely hears her. He watches as Enjolras gets to the head of the warm-up line and climbs the diving board, pausing only briefly before he flips off of it.

“He’ll be fine,” Montparnasse says firmly, and Grantaire takes an odd comfort in his confidence. “You know he always does best in front of a crowd.”

Grantaire nods, knows Montparnasse is right, but still his heart pounds. Enjolras surfaces in the water, hair stuck back against his scalp, and he goes to the ladder, where Jehan is waiting for him.

“I should have brought a flask,” Grantaire mumbles. He watches Enjolras converse with Jehan, both of them folding and drying themselves with their microfiber towels. He can hardly stop himself from standing to pace. All of him is a restless static, his knee bouncing until Montparnasse slaps it pointedly.

“He will be fine,” Montparnasse tells him again, irritable now.

Grantaire doesn’t even have a counter prepared. Cosette approaches Enjolras and he turns towards her in the exact perfect way to give the beads of water on his throat to the sunlight. They shine like stars, right on his skin, and Grantaire feels a little better.

 

Each diver has a few dives throughout the meet. Enjolras’ final dive is the most monumental, the same arrangement that nearly knocked him out of diving forever, but Grantaire still holds his breath for the preceding dives, relaxing only when Enjolras has surfaced and the judges have scored.

With the difficulty of his last dive, he’s slated for the latest portion of the competition, only three from last. He spends the rest of the competition at the opposite end of the bench, seated beside Jehan, Cosette, and the other divers. Grantaire watches him far more than he watches anyone else - Enjolras is solid, composed, entirely stone. He sits rigidly, his hands folded in his lap, legs occasionally crossed, attention respectfully fixed on the current diver. He only breaks posture to clap, only breaks face to smile when Cosette sets her highest score and when Jehan stands to go put himself in queue.

(Montparnasse leans forward and doesn’t breathe until Jehan enters the water with a perfect splash. Then he jumps up in excitement, cheers with the rest of their bench, only to quickly sit down when he realizes what he’s done. Eponine pats his knee; he gives Jehan the slyest grin when Jehan beams at him from behind the ladder.)

And then, finally but all too quickly, Enjolras stands.

The sun is high in the sky now, golden as it gazes through the glass ceiling and tangles with the water. The stands are quiet for the diver on the board, but Grantaire’s gaze is fixed upon Enjolras as he pads quietly towards the board, hands in fists at his sides.

When he looks up at the board, Grantaire wonders if it appears taller to him now, if it looks at all like the last diving board he saw in high school.

The room rumbles in a quiet applause, the judges mark furious notes on scorecards, and Enjolras stands centered in the sunlight. The speaker system in the pool is static-ridden, nearly intelligible as they announce Enjolras’ final dive, but Grantaire makes out the letter ‘D’.

Enjolras stretches his arms high above his head, draws in a breath so great that Grantaire sees his chest expand, and begins to climb. Grantaire leans forward.

The stands are so silent that Grantaire could close his eyes and swear that they were empty. Perhaps they all feel it, too, the weight in each step Enjolras takes to the top of the ladder. The reality that Enjolras is diving for more than the numbers on his scorecard, that he’s spent the day entirely blind to the Olympic scouts in the audience. Maybe they all know that he wasn’t supposed to be here - that he gets to the high dive and stands there to reclaim what is rightfully his:

His year, his past, his name.

Enjolras rolls his shoulders back and walks the length of the board slowly, every step careful but not timid, like the exiled finally coming home.

And when he gets to the edge of the board, he glows.

He turns his back to the water, poises himself on his toes. His damp hair curls wildly towards the sun, and the shadows between his shoulder blades deepen as he extends his arms at his sides. If there are any storms brewing inside of him, any toxic memories commandeering or walls erecting, he contains them.

Up there, he is perfect.

Grantaire has folded his hands in front of his mouth. The blood moves loud through his head, all of him coiling like wound-up springs - the longer Enjolras stands there, the worse he feels, the more nervous he becomes. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Enjolras hits the board again - if he actually hears that horrible noise that he’s spent so many nights imagining - if he sees the fall of his North Star.

(What would one ever do if the sky really fell?)

Then, something cuts through him and his noise, headlights through his fog:

The memory of that first night in Enjolras’ car, on their way to Courfeyrac’s homecoming party. The quiet, the street lamps washing over Enjolras’ face one after another, the blue light from the radio glowing over his knuckles. The papers and clothes and books in the backseat, the button on the visor, the chlorine lingering on their skin. The stillness, all those months ago, that would eventually lead to them cramming themselves into a plastic ball and tumbling clumsily around the courtyard. Grantaire should remember that the most, how the rest of the world literally lost its lines when they were together.

But the passenger’s seat in Enjolras’ car prevails, the comma before the rest of a thought. Grantaire sits there and thinks of Enjolras’ hands on the steering wheel, of the simple but incredible position at Enjolras’ side, in his presence even through the softest of moments.

The diving board just barely bounces beneath Enjolras.

And then, he leaps.

Grantaire stops breathing.

Enjolras tucks himself tightly, turning in the air as he does. It leads him into his next twist, which leads him to the next, his shape changing from moment to moment, each new movement a nod to the last - a gradient, the string that runs through a cohesive thought.

His descent ends before a moment has passed, with his taut fingertips the first to meet the water, and as quietly as it began. He leaves behind him the smallest splash, the thinnest ripples in the water, and the most loaded silence.

The sunlight thinks so highly of him that it keeps him even after he’s entered the water. Grantaire still sees him in its beams, burning holes through it.

Then their entire bench is on their feet, and Grantaire screams himself raw, their collective roar ringing loud in his ears.

He himself is made of the same stuff as summer afternoons and everything else bright - he can only imagine how Enjolras feels when he surfaces and gasps, beaming in the water.

Grantaire doesn’t hear the score when they first announce it because Enjolras goes straight from the pool and into Grantaire’s arms, soaking wet and shaking with excitement. Combeferre later says that the judges awarded Enjolras’ dive with an eight - perfect take-off, minus one for execution, minus one for splash. 

 

Enjolras agrees to one drink (“one,” he says pointedly, holding up his index finger as they all pile into their seats at the restaurant table, “ _one._ ”) that night, under two conditions: first, there can be only one type of alcohol in it, and second, Combeferre has to approve the drink.

“Fine,” Courfeyrac says dramatically, snatching the specialty cocktail menu from the center of the table. “Fine, never underestimate what you can do with one type of alcohol. Though I think you should go crazy and celebrate because you just gave The Man the most elegant middle finger in history.” He lifts a dark, ringed middle finger to the ceiling.

Bossuet starts a quick cheer that travels around the table before it dies.

Enjolras merely smiles, coy and distracting, settling in his spot beside Grantaire. “I know what you think,” he says. “But I still have to give my speech tonight.”

The bar around them is full for a Sunday evening, though Grantaire recognizes several warm-up jackets and notices an odd amount of patrons with damp hair. The noise around - voices, glasses clinking, ice shifting - keeps their own commotion to a reasonable level, even when it swells in the crowded space at their small table.

Courfeyrac goes through three drinks (a moscow mule, something with the word ‘blue’ in it, a mojito), before he lands on one that passes Combeferre’s approval: a Dirty Shirley.

“It’s red,” Combeferre explains reasonably. “And I know Enj likes Shirley Temples.”

“I do love Shirley Temples.”

“Who doesn’t?” Courfeyrac says, and orders one with two shots of vodka.

When their drinks come, Enjolras’ knee rests against Grantaire’s beneath the table; no one notices the abrupt color in Grantaire’s cheeks because they’re busy dissecting the dark, creamy drink that currently sits in front of Montparnasse (who looks conflicted, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but also not, since he’s at Jehan’s side.)

“If you like red drinks, nothing is better than wine,” Grantaire says below the commotion, nudging his wine glass towards Enjolras by its stem. Enjolras looks up from examining his own drink, brow knitted.

“No, thank you, I’ve tried Ferre’s wine,” he says, sounding troubled. “It tastes like salt.” He ducks again to watch the bubbles rise in his drink, poking at the cherry with his straw. “Is this about to ruin Shirley Temples for me?”

Grantaire laughs. “No, there’s hardly any alcohol in that, and vodka is the most inoffensive-tasting booze there is. Just drink it.”

Finally, Enjolras takes a tentative sip; Courfeyrac watches him from across the table, grinning.

Enjolras blinks. “I can’t taste the alcohol,” he says.

Courfeyrac lifts his daiquiri glass. “Cheers, my guy.”

Enjolras is a chatty drinker; he only stops talking when Grantaire, one glass down, plucks the cherry stem from his glass and puts it in his mouth. Enjolras watches Grantaire’s mouth intently, waiting among the table’s loud chatter, and flushes dark once Grantaire shows him the stem, now tied in a knot. Grantaire grins, pleased, and drops it back into Enjolras’ glass. Beneath the table Enjolras’ hand moves over his thigh.

“Speech!” Joly declares, when the windows have gone entirely black, when the bar is so crowded that people brush their backs when they pass. Shot glasses line the table, pushed to the center by Eponine and Musichetta, who have spent the hours in a whiskey shoot out. “Speech!” they agree in unison, lifting their newly emptied shot glasses. 

The table begins to chant, attracting gazes from around them. Grantaire leans in close, still only one drink down, chanting close to Enjolras’ ear until Enjolras’ grin crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

He stands, hand moving from Grantaire’s thigh to the gap between his shoulders. Courfeyrac hoots and the rest of them clap before they all turn in their seats towards Enjolras, facing him like plants to sunlight.

“Okay,” Enjolras says as matter-of-factly as he can, but his voice is tilted with the alcohol, not up to par with his usual solemnity. He holds out his free hand as if to steady himself. “I had this planned out, I thought about this last night, but now I can only recall the beginning. And mostly I want to talk about how problematic trickle-down economics is.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Courfeyrac says, lifting his glass.

“I want to hear the speech,” Jehan calls. “See where that takes you.”

“You guys are my family,” Enjolras announces, as proudly as he’s ever announced anything, and the table goes quiet, their hands wrapped loosely around their nearly-empty drink glasses, and their attention devoted. 

Grantaire feels the smallest movements of Enjolras’ hand on his back and has to tip his head back to stare up at him; he taps his fingers on his thigh so that his hand won’t find its way into Enjolras’ back pocket. His chest swells, already taken with Enjolras’ first statement - perhaps because this is something that he’s also realized only recently.

“I am lucky enough to have two families,” Enjolras continues firmly, but the spaces between his words are still smaller than usual, robbing them of their authority, but certainly not their charm. The entire table listens, endeared, and with small smiles. “And, god, this family has been through the most incredible highs, and the deepest lows. We now have records in swimming, but also in the city police department - ”

Bahorel cheers here, a whooping call that gathers the rest of their voices and then sweeps over the heads in the room. Enjolras laughs, delighted, and meets Grantaire’s gaze briefly as he waits for it to fade.

“Courfeyrac, what was it you said at the beginning of the year?” he asks. “Kill this year and have no regrets?”

“No regrets!” Courfeyrac exclaims and raises his glass. Everyone toasts, even Enjolras, whose glass is full of melting ice and a tied cherry stem.

“No regrets,” Enjolras says again, smile softening on his red mouth. “And that proved to me what I already know: this team, we can do anything.”

A pause, a reverent silence, all eyes on their leader.

“We took this year and we turned it on its head,” Enjolras continues, voice swelling like the crescendo of an orchestral piece. “We changed the school - _fuck_ , you guys, we changed our school, and we changed ourselves. Not one of us is the same as we were four months ago. We are new, we are unstoppable, and this year has been the best of my life.”

He raises his glass and everyone (Montparnasse excluded) follows suit. Grantaire’s heart pounds hard in his chest as he looks around the table, sees the pride and the tear-pink eyes and the bittersweet smiles all around - 

And he, too, loves these people.

“Here’s to us,” Enjolras declares, head held high. “Here’s to our legacy, to what’s beyond, and to the juniors, who will be here to carry on our name next year.”

He then grins a little sharply. “May we never die.”

The table erupts, laughter and cheers and happiness, now drawing in most of the attention throughout the restaurant.

Grantaire can’t help himself; he sets his hand on the back of Enjolras’ thigh. Enjolras ducks close and kisses the top of his head, and Grantaire smells the cologne on his neck.

He loves this boy the most.

Their dinner comes as Courfeyrac is convincing Enjolras that that was his best speech yet, that he should always have a Dirty Shirley, or five, before he speaks. Grantaire’s knee touches Enjolras’ through their entire meal, and he considers two things that distract him from it for the rest of the night.

First, he shouldn’t have ordered an alfredo that is so heavy on the garlic - he will need to steal a mint from Eponine before he goes.

Second, tomorrow is Monday. An average Monday of coffee and classes and cold air - but not swimming practice. He may not visit the pool again until next August. His year of swimming is over and, after their annual banquet next month, the group of them may never be in the same room together again.

It is officially over.

Enjolras, now sobered up, is the first to stand once they’ve paid their bills - graciously, Jehan volunteers Montparnasse to drive Combeferre and Eponine home. Combeferre stands as well and he and Enjolras talk in close proximity, hushed tones and subtle nodding and their absent touching - Enjolras’ hand on Combeferre’s side, and Combeferre’s on Enjolras’ elbow.

Grantaire takes the moment to hug Eponine, who won’t stop smiling through her whiskey shots. She looks utterly amused when Grantaire asks her for a mint.

“Do you need a condom, too?” she teases into his ear as they hug.

“You know I still have that hopeful little box that I’ve been saving since high school.”

She laughs and squeezes his ass. “Gross, I know that’s a lie. Get him. I won’t come home tonight.”

He holds her tight. “God bless you. May we both have fantastic nights,” he says, and then he and Enjolras are out the door: hurried steps and tangled fingers on the gear shift.

 

Their jack-o-lanterns, now soft and brown and concave, are still sitting beside the apartment building dumpster. Grantaire leads them up the fire escape, their shoes thumping metallically against the steel-barred steps.

Before he can open the door to his floor, his keys jingling in his hand, Enjolras grabs his elbow. “Wait, R, we should talk.”

Grantaire doesn’t want to talk, not yet. He wants Enjolras in his bed sheets. He knows his feelings won’t change in the next hour - his default state is head-over-heels for Enjolras - but he can’t say so without sounding pathetic. He turns towards Enjolras. “Okay.”

Enjolras laughs breathlessly and it clouds in front of his mouth. The neighborhood sits quietly behind him, dark in the night and spattered with distant shapes of house lights. The light above the apartment door is cool, giving Enjolras the colors of a ghost.

Grantaire half believes Enjolras must be some sort of spectre when he says, “I like you a lot.”

“This isn’t just because I finally rocked the 500, is it?” Grantaire says, barely smiling, trying to sound like he’s teasing more than he is.

“No - ”

“The timing is suspicious.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “I know, but only recently you and I have managed to talk without going after each other’s heads.”

A car passes below, headlights streaking across the roadway like satellites. Grantaire can’t argue with that. 

Enjolras moves a little closer and Grantaire feels the fire door against his back. “To be honest, I’ve liked you for awhile now,” Enjolras confesses quietly. “It started at finals last year, but you and I hardly saw each other through the rest of the school year and over the summer. It only got worse when you joined varsity.”

Grantaire waits for himself to wake up.

But he doesn’t, and the longer he stays quiet, the more concerned Enjolras looks.

“You can’t be serious,” he says and laughs again.

Enjolras frowns and takes a careful step back. “I’m entirely serious,” he says. “I’m sorry, am I out of line? If you’re not interested - ”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs, closing the space between them again to hold Enjolras’ face in both hands, his keyring low on his middle finger. “You are on my canvases, in my sketchbooks, I think about you all the goddamn time - ” Enjolras smiles slowly and Grantaire is smitten, “ - I am so interested in you, and I think you are the only one who’s been too dense to notice. Fuck, Enjolras, I’ve only had one drink a night for the past two weeks for you - I only had one tonight so you would be sure that you have my honest consent for whatever we do now.”

Enjolras turns his head, just enough to kiss Grantaire’s palm, a coy smile nested in the corner of his mouth. “Every time I thought I might have a shot, we’d argue.”

“A shot?” Grantaire says absurdly and then laughs again. “You are not the one between the two of us who needs to be worried about having ‘a shot’.”

“No,” Enjolras murmurs, but the debate dies there because Enjolras begins to bite Grantaire’s fingers, starting with his fingertips and then drawing them into his mouth to bite Grantaire’s knuckles.

“Um - ” Grantaire says intelligently and Enjolras closes his eyes, grins around Grantaire’s index finger. “Should we - go inside now? We can date if you, ah, want, I definitely want to - or we can wait, but I think it’s obviously that this is deeply rooted in us both, so - ”

Enjolras tips his head back and Grantaire’s finger pops from his mouth with a quiet sound. The night is one of the coldest yet, a dry and biting air, but it’s lost on them both.

“Dating, then?” Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire sees the clouds more than hears his voice. “Boyfriends?”

(This is his universe.)

“God, yes.”

Enjolras’ teeth glow when he smiles and Grantaire laughs, nearly floats away.

“Okay,” Enjolras breathes. “Let’s go inside.”

The hallway smells of some sort of take-out; several of the door mats laid out on the hard carpet have gone crooked. Enjolras’ fingers hook in the back pockets of Grantaire’s jeans and he can hear the noise of the other units through the wall, alive and enthusiastic in the Sunday night. Grantaire’s fingers have gone clumsy but he finally manages to open the door to his apartment, despite Enjolras, who has ducked to nose his way past Grantaire’s hood to kiss his neck.

They had left their bags in Enjolras’ car - perhaps Enjolras did it on purpose, but Grantaire most certainly forgot his due to his newly-scattered head. So all he has to drop beside the coat tree are his keys and jacket, discarded beside his shoes once he kicks them off. Enjolras does the same, movements hurried, before Grantaire takes his hand and leads them down the hall, over the up-turned corner of the rug, and to his room.

Grantaire finds his lamp in the dark and curses when it exposes the mess of his room, clothes on the floor, mugs colonized on his desk, paint dried in small clumps to the wall and floor. He shouldn’t really care - Enjolras’ everything is at least as messy as his. But something about Enjolras’ mess is poetic, like a genius caught in his own chaos, where as Grantaire’s is just chaos. Lazy chaos.

But Enjolras stands in front of the painting on his easel, paying no mind to anything else. He stands close, bent slightly to its level, his eyes narrow as he picks at his lower lip thoughtfully.

Grantaire’s heart pounds in the silence. He busies himself with starting up a playlist that he’s secretly named, ‘knocking boots’.

“You didn’t give me a reflection,” Enjolras points out quietly. “Was the angle wrong?”

“No,” Grantaire says softly, keeping a distance between them before he remembers ‘boyfriend’. This person, this beautiful, blond person, standing in his warm-up jacket and fitted sweatpants that are slightly wet at their bottom hems - this perfect person -

Is his boyfriend.

_His_ boyfriend.

(Somewhere along the way, Grantaire has to admit that he must have said something right.)

Boyfriend. So he steps up behind Enjolras, already missing the cool outside air against his warm skin, and slowly wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist. His fingers trace the zipper on Enjolras’ jacket and Enjolras straightens against him, leaning back into his warmth.

“Then why?” Enjolras asks curiously. His hair brushes Grantaire’s cheek as he tips his head back against Grantaire’s shoulder.

Grantaire presses his nose to the side of Enjolras’ neck - chlorine, soap, cologne, something sweet, more chlorine - and lets the soft music fill the air while he finds the perfect answer. Enjolras waits patiently and traces Grantaire’s wrists with his fingers, the simple touch promoting Grantaire’s quickened heartbeat.

Finally, Grantaire says, “There was so much of you up there on the diving board, all of you. You didn’t leave anything for the water below.”

(His second best answer: He doesn’t know if gods see their reflection in the water.)

Enjolras smiles slowly and turns his head to kiss Grantaire’s temple. “I like dating an artist,” he murmurs.

The word ‘dating’ passes Enjolras’ lips so casually, as if it’s nothing new, as if he’s already settled down with the idea. Grantaire smiles. “Do you like my pretty excuses?” he murmurs.

Enjolras laughs and turns in Grantaire’s arms. He pushes his fingers back through Grantaire’s hair slowly and Grantaire closes his eyes, tips his head back. Drifts away a little bit.

“I do,” Enjolras admits quietly. “But I know that wasn’t an excuse.”

“A compliment about talking, from you,” Grantaire murmurs. “A high honor.”

Enjolras makes a noise in response but Grantaire doesn’t quite have the chance to figure it out before Enjolras leans in to kiss along his jaw. He curls his fingers loosely in the ends of Grantaire’s hair, encouraging him to keep his head tipped back.

Grantaire feels a flush surface on his cheeks and he exhales slowly.

“Last night, I thought about fingering you,” Enjolras murmurs, his mouth moving on the soft spot just beneath Grantaire’s ear.

“Oh, jesus christ,” Grantaire breathes. “In between planning portions of your speech?”

Enjolras laughs quietly and Grantaire shudders when he feels Enjolras’ teeth, working a bruise into his skin.

“I mostly thought about you,” he admits. He tilts his head and kisses Grantaire’s ear, sending a thorough shiver down Grantaire’s spine. Grantaire loses track of the guitar chords in the air and keeps himself anchored with his hands on Enjolras’ sides. “Can I finger you?” Enjolras asks him, words falling close to Grantaire’s ear, too close, so close that Grantaire’s knees go weak.

“Yeah,” Grantaire murmurs, abruptly aware of the points at which Enjolras’ fingertips brush the back of his neck. “Yes, you can - do more than that, if you want, you can fuck me.”

Enjolras’ hands tighten in his hair and he hears, feels, the soft catch of Enjolras’ breath.

Enjolras lifts his head, exposing his flushed cheeks and blown pupils, catching Grantaire’s eye for a still moment. The silence points to all of the places where they touch - fingers to neck, chest to chest, knuckles to ribs, hips to hips - where they align and where they don’t. The spaces between their knees, their toes, mouths.

It lingers, so long that Grantaire can’t be sure if that pounding heart is his or Enjolras’, until he pulls on Enjolras’ jacket, closing some of those spaces between them, and kisses Enjolras hard.

Hard and feverish and like he’s never wanted anything else in his life; they fall like dropped stones onto his bed, first him, then Enjolras, right on top of him, knees pinned around Grantaire’s hips. Grantaire holds onto the back of Enjolras’ neck as he crawls backwards, further into his landscape of bed sheets, using his free hand to push them away when they try to ensnare them. Enjolras follows and licks into Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire’s other hand finds its way beneath Enjolras jacket and traces the perfect arch of Enjolras’ spine, deepened and sloped attractively at Enjolras’ lower back.

Enjolras feels different here, with the smell of laundry detergent blooming around them as they move to get out of their clothes - he’s different without the water working against them, cushioning their touches. There is nothing between his fingers and Enjolras’ skin when he pushes Enjolras’ jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, there is nothing to take Enjolras away from him when they’re both out of their pants and shirts and socks and he pulls Enjolras back on top of him as he throws himself back into his sheets. And there is nothing here to keep Enjolras’ sounds from him. 

He hears them all and it doesn’t take him long to realize that Enjolras is vocal, that every adjustment, every bite left down Grantaire’s neck and chest comes with some sort of noise, breathless and rough and _dizzying._

Grantaire can hardly think when Enjolras lifts his head from Grantaire’s collarbone, red-lipped and dark-eyed and proud of the bruises that he’s left down Grantaire’s front, from his throat to his ribs, all of them hot and alive with Grantaire’s beating heart. He feels waterlogged and Enjolras’ hands are holding him down, one at his shoulder and one at his hip, and his chest rises and falls quickly with his breathing.

“Fuck,” he breathes, nails dug so deep into Enjolras’ biceps that they’ve left crescents, and Enjolras grins in the dim lighting, his teeth white. Grantaire stares down between them, at the shadows lying thick across their abdomen, where their hips press together. “How bad are they?”

“Bad,” Enjolras admits quietly and ducks to kiss each mark he’s left, tender and satisfied. “You might want to avoid Courfeyrac for awhile.”

Grantaire laughs and arches, tips his head back and floats away again. “Fuck,” he says as he goes, his fingers full of static as he works them through Enjolras’ hair.

“You can give one to me, too,” Enjolras murmurs, mouth pressed to a gap between Grantaire’s ribs. “Or several.”

And then he lies out on top of Grantaire, spread against him, with his knee slotted between Grantaire’s thighs. He tips his head back and Grantaire roots his fingers in Enjolras’ hair, spreads his other hand at Enjolras’ lower back, and holds him tightly as he bites and sucks slow marks down the side of Enjolras’ neck. He takes his time, savoring, whereas Enjolras had taken and taken and _taken_ \- he goes slowly until Enjolras begins to grow restless, fingers flexing and hips shifting and breathing heaving. 

Slowly, until Enjolras moans breathlessly, prolonged and barely there, and then hisses Grantaire’s name. 

(Grantaire digs his nails into Enjolras’ skin.)

And, god damn, does Enjolras look good with Grantaire’s bruises purpling his pale skin, leading the eye up the curve of his throat and beneath the cover of his hair. Enjolras gives him a pleased smile when Grantaire tells him so.

The clock remains hidden beneath one of Grantaire’s shirts and his phone is on the floor, forgotten entirely in his jeans pocket. So there’s nothing to tell Grantaire the time when Enjolras stands to retrieve his bottle of lube and a condom from his desk drawer. All he knows is that there is no light shining behind his window shades and that Enjolras is nearly naked, adorned only in his underwear and new hickeys as he navigates through the mess on Grantaire’s bedroom floor. 

Enjolras in any state of undress is nothing new for Grantaire - but Enjolras, stepping tenderly over his sweatshirts and leaning over his sketchbooks as he hooks his fingers beneath Grantaire’s desk drawer to pull it open - 

This Enjolras, walking on the sultry and electronic measures that drift around his bedroom like they’re his red carpet -

He is so entirely new.

And Grantaire loves that, but he also wants this Enjolras to be as routine as waking in the morning.

(Boyfriend; Grantaire turns onto his back and covers his eyes with his hand, bites back a stupid smile that manipulates his mouth anyway.)

By the time he uncovers his eyes, Enjolras is standing close to his bed, staring down at Grantaire like he’s trying to memorize him.

Their underwear goes; Enjolras kneels between Grantaire’s legs and leans over him, setting the condom and lube on the bed so that he can spread his fingers across Grantaire’s chest and run his hands slowly down Grantaire’s front, fingertips pressing lightly, like they want to leave trails as they would in the sand.

“You’re - distractingly attractive,” Enjolras admits from above him, hair curling and curtained around his face. “You look so good.”

Grantaire laughs breathlessly and traces Enjolras’ jaw with his fingers. “Don’t even get me started on you,” he breathes. “If I were Michelangelo, I would tear down David and sculpt you instead.”

Enjolras laughs too, loud enough that it echoes across Grantaire’s bedroom, and Grantaire presses his thumb to the new blush on Enjolras’ cheek.

Then, more seriously, Enjolras asks him, “You’re still sure about this? You still want this?”

Immediate: “More than anything.”

Enjolras is back on his knees between Grantaire’s legs, and Grantaire cages him between his thighs.

Enjolras works him open slowly, thoroughly. First with his index finger, moving deep inside of Grantaire until Grantaire shudders and curls his fingers in the sheets. Somewhere around here, Enjolras asks, “Do you do this to yourself?” And Grantaire feels his skin flush from his chest to his ears when he answers with a distant, “Yeah.”

(What gets him, though, is Enjolras quiet, “Me too.”)

Then Enjolras adds another finger, fitting it carefully inside of Grantaire as he keeps Grantaire pinned beneath his gaze. It soon brings Grantaire to pieces, to gasping every time he feels Enjolras’ fingers spread inside of him. His fingertips and toes and head fill with stars, blinking like static and bright and hot. He groans loudly with Enjolras’ last finger, and begins to sweat when Enjolras grips his jaw tightly.

And louder yet, when Enjolras’ fingers are gone and Enjolras ducks to take Grantaire’s cock into his mouth. Grantaire bucks but Enjolras anticipates this and holds Grantaire’s hips down, relentless and strict, and Grantaire tangles his fingers in Enjolras’ hair.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “Fuck, Enjolras, you’re going to kill me.”

Enjolras watches him from beneath his lashes, hollows his cheeks around Grantaire’s cock in a way that makes it impossible for Grantaire to breathe. He curls his toes against the bed sheets.

And then, finally, by the time Enjolras has straightened, prepared himself with the condom and lube, and begins to push himself into Grantaire, Grantaire is already shaking, already stuck with sweat to the sheets beneath him.

Enjolras fucks him slowly at first, getting used to him, finding him, and he leans over to prop himself up with a hand on the bed beside Grantaire’s head. He sets his other at Grantaire’s collarbone, fingers spread and distracting close to Grantaire’s throat. He ducks so that his hair tickles Grantaire’s cheeks, his forehead, and Grantaire laces his fingers together at the back of Enjolras’ hair. 

When he pulls Enjolras down to kiss and bite and breathe against his jaw, he smells chlorine.

And Enjolras snaps his hips in a particular way that makes Grantaire arch, that makes his back bow from the bed and his head goes feverish. It makes him desperate and he bends his knees deeper around Enjolras’ hips, pressing his thighs tight to Enjolras side as he rocks his hips to meet Enjolras’ movements. 

Then, Enjolras is no longer fucking him slowly, no longer trying to figure him out - he’s taking. He’s fucking Grantaire hard, fucking him until Grantaire is strung out beneath him, laid out and so easy, and there is nothing else in the room, nothing else in the world. Just Enjolras: caging him to his bed, sweat gathering in beads along the freckles on his shoulders, his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks.

That look on his face, distant and absent of the lines that usually crease his brow, blissed out until he opens his eyes and looks at Grantaire with a dangerous gaze, that prompts a skip in Grantaire’s heartbeat. 

Slowly, as he rocks Grantaire into the bed, he moves his hand up to hold Grantaire’s throat. Testing.

And then pressing, choking, immediately after Grantaire tips his head back and gives him a breathless, “Yes.”

Grantaire comes hard, gasping, so breathless that his head pirouettes.

When he comes back to himself (gradually, a piece at a time, starting with a thought and ending with the feeling in his fingertips), he finds Enjolras panting above him, eyes closed as he collects himself as well.

The night (morning?) softens after that. Enjolras discards the condom and then comes back to Grantaire, bright and languid in the last remnants of their quickened breathing, smiling gently as he lies down beside Grantaire and presses close to his side. Grantaire’s head buzzes softly, his exhaustion slowly showing itself as they lie there, and he tangles his fingers in Enjolras’. 

“We have class tomorrow,” he says quietly. The music floats like dust in sunlight around them. 

Enjolras sighs and it falls across Grantaire’s neck. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s only 11:30. If we try, we can still get a decent night’s rest.”

Grantaire scoffs quietly. He catches sight of the corner in Enjolras’ grin before Enjolras kisses his cheek.

“But of course,” Enjolras continues suggestively. “We don’t have to try.”

 

3:45 AM and Grantaire sits up, breathless, as he licks the last of Enjolras’ come from his lips. He’s only aware of the time because his phone lights up from its new place on his bedside table, showing a message from Eponine.

The acoustics continue around them, lazy and slow, clumsy in the way that only comes with exhaustion. Grantaire is tired, they both are, but he thumbs along Enjolras’ hip bones as he watches Enjolras come down, watches as the blush that had awakened across Enjolras’ chest when Grantaire had swallowed his cock slowly pales.

Grantaire crouches and rests his cheek against Enjolras’ stomach, content. 

Enjolras laughs and pushes his fingers back through Grantaire’s hair. “Hey,” he breathes, voice rough. “I have an abrupt question for you.”

“Oh god, Enj, I know I’m good at head, but please, think about yourself before you ask me to marry you.”

Enjolras pats his cheek firmly, a chiding and faux smack that trips Grantaire’s thoughts, awakens a warmth in his stomach upon which he will dwell later. 

“We’re not getting married,” he says blandly and thumbs across Grantaire’s cheekbone now, and Grantaire turns his head to kiss Enjolras’ hip affectionately.

“Mm?”

“We have to pick a captain for next year’s team,” Enjolras murmurs. “Would you be interested?”

Grantaire scoffs quietly and earns a poke to his cheek. “I’m serious,” Enjolras says. “You’ve changed a lot this year. You’ve been a pillar not only to me, but many others. I think you would be a good candidate.”

“Oh god, did you get so bored during that blowjob that you started thinking about that?”

“Be serious.”

Grantaire sighs and then stares up at Enjolras. He takes a moment to stare at him from this angle, this new angle that will no doubt find its way into his sketchbooks. “I appreciate it,” he responds quietly. “But no, I don’t think I would be a good fit for leadership. I’m too lazy.”

Enjolras doesn’t argue with that. His thumb finds the corner of Grantaire’s mouth and Grantaire kisses it gently before he reaches up and threads his fingers between Enjolras’. Neither of them say anything for the moment and Grantaire wonders if Enjolras is content like he is, if he is also trying to find the details in this silence to remember them always. And Grantaire is so infatuated with Enjolras propped up against his pillows, sunk so deep into them that they’ve swollen around him, and his hair tangled around him and exhaustion set thick beneath his eyes and the bruises like a stone path leading up the side of his neck and the last of the pink glowing bright in his cheeks.

Enjolras, and the soap and chlorine stuck to his skin of his hip, right where Grantaire has pressed his nose.

Enjolras, with his soft thighs pressed against Grantaire’s sides.

Enjolras, Enjolras.

“If you’re sure,” Enjolras finally says quietly. 

Around 4:15, they finally fall asleep.

 

The next morning, Eponine isn’t home, but has left a message for Grantaire that says she’ll be back that evening. Enjolras showers quickly in his bathroom, and leaves Grantaire’s apartment with a piece of toast in hand and smelling like Grantaire’s shampoo.

He kisses Grantaire before he goes.

 

Grantaire comes to French Film with two coffee cups in hand; he finds a coffee cup on the empty desk behind Enjolras and another cradled between Enjolras’ hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you everyone for your patience and for your kind words about this fic! they mean a ton to me. one more chapter to go!
> 
> tumblr @ andtheheir


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has exactly one suit in his closet, and he wears it exactly once a year: every December for the annual post-swim season banquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!! here it is!
> 
> as i mentioned before, this fic turned into a much larger thing than i had first intended it to be. when i started, i only meant to write a small, fun thing that would be good writing practice. 70k+ words and five and a half full notebooks later, here we are! thank you all for your support and enthusiasm as i was posting this! i really appreciate the time everyone takes to read this monster and your lovely, encouraging comments! (i'm a little behind on replying to those, but i promise i'll respond soon.)
> 
> so, without further ado: the swim season banquet (based on my own experiences with swim season banquets, plus a few garnishes.)

Grantaire has exactly one suit in his closet, and he wears it exactly once a year: every December for the annual post-swim season banquet.

(He has proposed that they skip the banquet all together and end the year the way it started: with another rager. But he concedes whenever Joly reminds him of the extravagant catering service - champagne included - for which they pay with the year’s leftover funds.)

This year, Grantaire finds an unfamiliar satisfaction in dressing himself to look not only presentable, but nice. He spends a little more time on his hair, working one of Eponine’s creams into it to take the frizz from his curls, and he’s nearly unrecognizable by the time he finishes, with his hair a passing definition of ‘tamed.’ Eponine comments as she passes Grantaire ironing his jacket in the living room, like she isn’t wearing more lipstick than usual or curling her hair for the first time in years.

They both stand at their front door five minutes ahead of their agreed upon departure time, smelling of cologne and perfume. Grantaire’s tie mirrors the black satin in Eponine’s dress.

“We look good,” Eponine says and grins.

“We look _fatal_ ,” Grantaire says and Eponine laughs as she flicks off the last of the lights.

(Grantaire kind of ruins it with his canvas coast, not owning an appropriate dress coat for the snowy December evening. But Eponine tells him that it’s good, that it’s a touch of him, and reminds him that Enjolras will probably do something similar, with the touch of rebellion that he adds to every formal outfit of his. Last year, it was his pocket square patterned with the word ‘resist’.)

Enjolras is waiting for him when they get to the campus banquet hall, just inside the glass front door. He looks up from his phone as they pull into the parking lot, when their headlights fall over the toes of his shoes.

“Oh god,” Grantaire says, breathless in the driver’s seat when Enjolras wraps his arm around his dress coat and ducks out into the snow. The wind brings life to the bottom hem of Enjolras’ jacket and it billows around his thighs. He leaves footprints as he walks towards then and Grantaire kills the engine, heart abruptly pounding.

“Looks like someone wants to talk,” Eponine says complacently as Grantaire distracts himself with the fit of Enjolras’ slacks, with how his hair bronzes as he passes under the lamps in the parking lot. “Or make out.”

“Oh god,” Grantaire says again, and then Enjolras is at the passenger’s side window, knocking quietly.

“Hey,” he says once Eponine opens the door. “Can I - ”

“Yep,” Eponine is already saying as she slips out, steadying herself in her heels on the wet pavement. “He’s all yours.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says quietly, sincerely, and takes Eponine’s place in the passenger’s seat. He brings with him a chill that lingers, even after he’s closed the door, and Grantaire sees the political buttons fastened to the lapel of his jacket. He smells vaguely of nicotine, which only makes Grantaire more nervous.

“Hi,” Grantaire says quietly, distant as he looks Enjolras over, from his loosened tie to the snow clinging to the calves of his slacks. He’s too distracted to see that Enjolras is doing the same to him. Belatedly, he notices that Enjolras is wearing a tie clip of a silver tree.

“Hi,” Enjolras murmurs in the stillness. “You look nice. Really nice.”

Grantaire laughs and abruptly feels silly for all of the effort he put into himself - silly, but with that look in Enjolras’ eye, he can’t regret it.

“I didn’t mean to separate you from Eponine,” Enjolras continues and he straightens in his seat, turning towards Grantaire like he does only when he has something important to say. “But I wanted to talk before you go inside.

Oh, god.

“Are things that bad?” Grantaire says, as cheeky as he can manage, but it’s difficult with the pit opening inside him, presenting him with every worst-case scenario, every little thing Enjolras could say here to pull the foundation out from beneath his world. “What horrible pictures of me did Courfeyrac dig up for the slideshow?”

Enjolras just barely smiles. Grantaire tries to convince himself that any smile is a good thing. 

“He chose flattering photos for everyone,” Enjolras says. “But I will have to show you which punch is spiked.”

Then, the smile is gone and he says, “No, I want to talk about us.”

Us.

‘Us’ has only been three weeks, three weeks that Grantaire has, without any doubt, enjoyed. Days with frequent text messages and hickeys above shirt collars and secret kisses in hallways - both empty and not. Nights with dinner at a table for two, and less and less sleep and Enjolras’ cologne, lingering in his bedsheets. They’ve fallen into a routine - Enjolras stays over on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays - Grantaire stays over on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Saturdays are wild cards; they end up wherever the day brings them.

They wake to alarms and tangled legs. They shower with each other’s soap, drink coffee from each other’s mugs. Grantaire’s punctuality suffers even more, but it’s worth it when their goodbye kisses end with them pressed against the wall and dizzy, unaware of how much time has actually passed.

‘Us’ has been all of the things he’s learned about Enjolras - like his favorite food (quiche, because his mother used to make it for him before school), and his utter disdain for khakis. It’s been the new quiet at hours like three and four, adjusting to silences shared with another, passed horizontally and with fingertips wandering across cheekbones and jaws.

‘Us’ - and Grantaire is not yet ready to give it up.

But Enjolras stares at him solemnly from over the center console, still after his stress cigarettes, and Grantaire isn’t sure he has a choice. He doesn’t know what ‘us’ has been to Enjolras.

He takes the moment to memorize the last seconds in which Enjolras is his.

“I’m graduating this year,” Enjolras says and there’s something in Grantaire’s throat. “My original plan was to move to the coast and find a job as a political analyst, especially with the upcoming elections.

“But - ” he swallows hard and Grantaire sees his throat work in the darkness, “ - recently I’ve been thinking of grad school. Here.”

Outside, Joly holds onto the crook of Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s elbows as they cross the parking lot. He lets go once they’re beneath the cover of the archway outside the door, entirely unaware that Grantaire and Enjolras are still in his car, discussing something life-changing.

Grantaire has been dumped before, and he has a damn, lingering comfort in the fact that this does not sound like a break-up. But he can’t tell what it does sound like.

He laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do. “You think the dean is going to keep you around once he’s officially done with you?”

Enjolras laughs too, and it lets Grantaire relax, just a bit. “Certainly,” he says, biting. “Because I can pay for it. But that’s my one sticking point in that plan - I don’t want to owe that man anything else.”

“R,” Enjolras says abruptly, smile gone as he fixes his eyes on Grantaire again, “what I’m saying is that you and I may be apart for awhile after this summer. We may have to do long distance - if you want to do anything at all. I know that it would be a huge commitment for us both, and it’s not even for certain. So many things can happen between now and - ”

“Yes.”

Enjolras pauses briefly, as if thinking he misheard Grantaire. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“Everything,” Grantaire says and looks troubled. “Look, I mean it. If you want to stay here for grad school and raise more hell, I’ll bail you out of jail again - ”

(In passing, he thinks he would end up in the jail cell with Enjolras this time.)

“ - but I don’t want to keep you here. This tiny town can’t hold you - ”

“It isn’t tiny,” Enjolras points out quietly.

“Okay, then that just shows how big you are,” Grantaire says and falters when Enjolras just barely smiles. “Don’t - Don’t stay here for me. I’ve lived most of my life thinking that you thought the worst of me, and so I can do a long distance relationship for a year. And then if you survive my pathetic text messages and skype dates, then I’ll come join you on the coast.”

“It won’t just be messages and skype dates,” Enjolras promises quietly. “I will come to visit. I’ll definitely come back for varsity finals.”

Grantaire believes him, even though there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to. There’s still a part of him that clings to the comfort of being nothing more than a disappointment to Enjolras, that doesn’t want to take hope for something better only to be let down in the end. But Enjolras stares at him in the dim car, smile secret and lower lip tucked beneath his teeth, and it’s not difficult to believe that Enjolras wants this as much as he does.

“And I’ll fly out on holidays,” Grantaire says. “And you can show off your banging studio apartment and I will spend a week straight in your bed.”

Enjolras sets his hand on the gear shift and Grantaire takes it, tangling their fingers together.

“You better,” Enjolras murmurs, breathless, eyes crinkling and he pulls Grantaire in to kiss him. Enjolras kisses him slowly, dizzying, admittedly problematic for only minutes before a public event. But Grantaire touches Enjolras’ cheek with his free hand and breathes him in, kissing him easily.

(Kissing Enjolras is so easy.)

“Hey,” Grantaire breathes into Enjolras’ mouth, thumbing across the slope of his cheekbone.

Enjolras tilts his head, noses at Grantaire before he gives him another brief kiss. “Mm?”

“You don’t smell like chlorine.”

Grantaire feels the smile spread across Enjolras’ lips.

 

“Oh,” Enjolras says and stops them outside the door to the banquet hall. They both have snow matted beneath their shoes and it crunches when Enjolras turns Grantaire towards him, his hand resting on the elbow of Grantaire’s casual jacket. He has a quiet smile on his face that Grantaire could spend all night kissing. “I should warn you, we had a ton of leftover funds this year.”

“Oh _please_ tell me that I am about to walk into a party straight from Gatsby’s house, with a champagne fountain and tables set with gold plates and dancers on the chandeliers.”

Enjolras laughs and slips his fingers down Grantaire’s arm, to trace the lines in his palm. He steps close and the breath between their mouths goes white when he says, “You got one of those things right.”

“It’s the dancers, isn’t it?” Grantaire murmurs and wonders if Enjolras’ proximity will ever not affect his vitals. “If you tell me Jay Gatsby is in there, I swear to god, I will eat a fork.”

(Grantaire still doesn’t know why he says some things.)

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and begins to fill the slots between Grantaire’s fingers with his own, one by one. “What good would that do?”

“The waitstaff would have one less fork to clean. But it would mostly be an unhealthy outlet for my excitement.”

Enjolras laughs again, soft and contained between them. “Well, unluckily for the waitstaff and luckily for you, Jay Gatsby is busy.”

It’s the champagne fountain. It stands tall and tiered in the center of the hall, glittering beneath the chandeliers and foaming like waterfalls at the rim of each level, where it folds over itself. Around it sits a ring of champagne flutes, guarded by a stern member of the waitstaff, who Grantaire suspects will demand his ID if he even looks at the champagne for too long.

“We have a bouncer by the champagne, but you let Courfeyrac spike one of the punch bowls?” Grantaire asks, leaning in to talk close to Enjolras’ ear.

Enjolras squeezes his hand. “The faculty don’t know about the punch,” he mumbles. “Combeferre monitored the amount he put in to make sure it’s not enough to keep anyone from driving home.”

“Right, of course.”

The entire space feels liminal, somewhere between a ball too elegant for Grantaire’s presence and what he remembers of his high school prom. The napkins are expertly folded at each place set around the few circular tables. The paintings (fake, Grantaire knows, but large and impressive otherwise) hung on the pale walls are framed in gold, and everyone adorns formal attire - suits and ties mingling with fine dresses.

Alternately, the music drifting through the air comes straight from the most recent hits on Joly’s phone, and the projector screen has been lowered on the far wall. It shines with a slideshow of varying pictures from through the season. 

It’s all an odd and charming spectacle - the room echoes in familiar voices and laughter and glasses touching. The air smells heavy of champagne and a heater, and Grantaire’s chest feels tight, uncomfortably so, constricted in nostalgia.

Enjolras squeezes his hand.

“Coat check is over there,” he murmurs, so close that Grantaire can turn his head and feel Enjolras’ breath on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll catch up with you at dinner. I have to go talk to Ferre.”

Grantaire watches him go with the word ‘boyfriend’ stuck in his head - that strange combination of letters that still feels too great to be in his reach.

He checks his coat (it hangs comically among the black dress jackets), produces his ID and fills a flute of champagne for himself. Jehan, Eponine, and Montparnasse are the only ones at a table, and so Grantaire weaves himself between the mass that has gathered around Bahorel to hear his latest laments about law school to join them.

“Before you give him shit about being at a team-only event,” Jehan says as Grantaire sits, and drops his croissant onto an appetizer plate to set his hand on Montparnasse’s thigh, “Enjolras gave him a pardon.”

“Not that I asked for it,” Montparnasse adds coolly and fits his ringed fingers between Jehan’s. Grantaire, in spite of his efforts, feels sloppy beside the two of them, pale in the presence of Montparnasse’s dark, tailored suit and Jehan’s floral cravat and hair twisted neatly over his shoulder. Jehan’s suit is a secret magenta, dark except where the light shines across its velvet to expose its pink hue. Grantaire wonders if Montparnasse made is specifically for him.

“Of course not,” Grantaire says lightly and sits at Jehan’s open side. “I think Enjolras’ secret kink is people who will fight with him.”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrow and lifts his champagne glass to his lips. “Hard pass,” he says. “I prefer those who would fight with me to know it will be the last thing the ever do.”

Jehan looks far to pleased with that.

“Bull shit,” Eponine says and leans back in her chair, charcoal-lined eyes fixed on Montparnasse. “You and I fight every week about whether or not elbow patches should come back in style.”

“They should,” Montparnasse murmurs to his champagne.

“They should not,” Eponine counters, swirling her champagne glass.

The debate cuts when an echoing cheer seizes the ballroom, born from the picture on the projector screen. Courfeyrac and Jehan on the trampoline in Grantaire’s and Eponine’s living room, beer splashing from the cups in their hands. A ping-pong ball is suspended between them, floating like a spectre. 

Grantaire stares, stuck on the photograph from months ago, even after the slideshow progresses. He knows where exactly he was standing in that photo without even seeing himself - just to the right of the camera, behind Jehan, poised with a fuzzy head and a wine-stained cup. The room around him, thumping with the bass, Marius beside him, casting glances at Cosette. The smell of beer making a home for itself on the walls, the floor vibrating with each of Courfeyrac’s bounces -

Enjolras, standing somewhere behind the camera, with his soda can and damp hair and steady presence, distracting Grantaire through bouts of self-disappointment.

Now, he looks around and finds Enjolras standing beside the long, clothed table near the back of the room, pointing to the place cards and empty platters as he talks close to Combeferre. His suit of straight lines and the rebellion in his loosened tie and open button on the collar of his shirt. His hair combed into loose, soft curls, his shoes crusted with salt, his lips chapped and red - 

He meets Grantaire’s gaze so abruptly that Grantaire cannot possibly know if it’s on purpose, and smiles.

In the crowded room, Grantaire is the only one who sees it.

He blinks and surfaces inside himself slowly. Eponine and Montparnasse have found for themselves something new to discuss, adorned with hand gestures and all. Jehan simply watches Grantaire, as if he had followed Grantaire at a distance through the months past, and right back to the present again. He gives Grantaire a lofty smile, pleased, and Grantaire feels much the same.

Dinner surprises them all - entirely absent of the expected pulled-pork and roasted vegetable sandwiches, and replaced with entree options of chicken marsala and shrimp linguine and baked tofu. The salads are a rich green, tossed with an array of vegetables, and the dressings are plentiful, some of them so exotic that they’re unrecognizable. The desserts are stacked, arranged much like the champagne fountain, most composed of a chocolate so dark that Grantaire’s mouth waters when he looks at them.

The hot food steams as Grantaire moves down the length of the table, and his plate fills all too quickly. Just after he balances what appears to be a thin slice of flourless chocolate cake on the most extravagant bread roll he’s ever seen, Enjolras touches his elbow, leans in distractingly close, and murmurs, “Where are you sitting?”

Dinner turns into more of dinner and a show - they all gradually arrange themselves around the tables so that they can all see the projector screen. They rumple the table cloths and move the centerpieces and press close as they watch, elbows to elbows, thighs to thighs. The slideshow passes on ebbs and flows. Swelling laughter with an image of Bahorel and Musichetta caught in a bubble-blowing war, then a quiet stillness with an image of Enjolras standing on that final diving board.

Grantaire forgets to eat; beside him, Enjolras does the same. They both go deaf to the quiet tap of the silverware on plates as they watch the images pass, and Grantaire wonders if Enjolras is losing himself like he is. If Enjolras sees the picture of them all on the bus, hiding their Jell-O shots behind the seats, and then is immediately there. As if the screen is a doorway, does he smell the chlorine, feel his damp hair on his neck, remember the pit in his stomach that November day, when everything seemed wrong?

And then it goes, as quickly as it had happened the first time - 

Somewhere, Grantaire had blinked, and now finds himself sitting closer to Enjolras, their legs entwined beneath the table, the insides of their shoes pressed together.

Grantaire, holding his fork uselessly in one hand, turns his head to look at Enjolras. Enjolras’ fingers are pinched around the stem of his champagne glass (filled with sober punch). His lips are pressed into the line that betrays his gritted teeth and, yes, he looks as far away as Grantaire feels. The images shine in his eyes, colors reflecting, and he has followed them into their memories.

Grantaire sets his fork down, his hot food having long gone gold, and places his hand palm-up on Enjolras’ thigh. Among the voices that grow and echo in the banquet hall, Enjolras takes his hand and holds on tightly.

(This is the last time this will happen, exactly like this.)

The moment breaks when the room detonates, set off by the selfie that Courfeyrac had taken of them all after the protest, just after montparnasse and Eponine had bailed them out of their holding cell. They’re all frayed, inked with bruises and dirt and dried blood, but they’re all smiling, beaming, even - crowded into the small frame of the picture and back-dropped by the campus police lobby.

Enjolras and Grantaire, of course, are absent, sitting in the quiet night in Grantaire’s car.

A smile cracks across Enjolras’ face and they let go of each other to clap, cheering so loudly that it lingers in their throats.

Once the slideshow loops, starts them over at the beginning and leaves Grantaire feeling an odd species of nostalgia, Combeferre leans over the table to peer at Enjolras from behind Eponine. “Enj, are you going to eat before you speak?” he asks, his own plate clean and adorned with his folded napkin. His eyes are just barely glassy, indicating that the champagne flute before him is not his first.

Beneath the table, Enjolras’ knee touches Grantaire’s. Enjolras looks down at his plate as if just remembering that it’s there.

“No,” he says. “I’ll eat later.”

“Speech, speech, speech,” Jehan begins softly beside him, but it spreads like something contagious. Within five chants, the hall echoes with it, their voices sticking to the pillars and hanging on the walls like the artwork. 

Enjolras smiles slowly, looking at Grantaire, watching Grantaire’s mouth as he chants along with the team. Grantaire’s chest swells at the obvious contentment on Enjolras’ face, as if he is utterly in love with this moment.

(Grantaire, too, is in love with this moment - 

with this boy.)

Enjolras reaches up to hold Grantaire’s cheek, only briefly before he stands, but it’s enough to leave Grantaire scattered and without a coherent thought in his wake.

More cheers as Enjolras makes his way to the podium positioned beside the screen; Grantaire’s cheeks are hot and Jehan won’t stop grinning beside him.

Enjolras steps up to the microphone and the lights halo around his head.

(As the noise in the room slowly smothers, Grantaire wonders if, last night, when he had his cheek pillowed on Enjolras’ chest and his ankles tangled in Enjolras’ bed sheets, Enjolras had been planning this speech.)

“As your captain,” Enjolras begins, poised perfectly at the microphone, “I have given many speeches. I - ” He laughs when Bahorel starts another blossom of cheers. The photos pass beside him as he waits, smiling soft in the projecter’s glow. “Well, I was going to say that I think some of you may be getting sick of my voice, but that’s compelling evidence to the contrary.”

“When you speak, flowers bloom,” Courfeyrac calls.

“Preach,” Grantaire chimes in, and his heart skips a beat when Enjolras meets his gaze.

“When you speak, Grantaire blooms,” Courfeyrac revises.

Grantaire grins at Enjolras. “And I’m as dead as a god damn tumbleweed.”

Jehan spawns an obnoxious “aw” and it moves through the hall. Grantaire watches Enjolras through it, matching Enjolras’ smile.

Once the room has quieted, Enjolras leans in close to the microphone again. “Do you two want to do this?” he teases. “It seems like you have a bit prepared.”

“Enj, you know everything from our mouths is improv,” Courfeyrac laughs.

“He calls it improv, I call it bull shit,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac lifts his champagne glass to Enjolras graciously. “And with that,” he says, “the floor is yours, oh captain, my captain.” Grantaire lifts his glass in agreement.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says fondly, the smile soft on his face. “As I was saying, I have given many speeches in my time as captain, but no number could possibly be large enough to express my gratitude and pride at the honor it has been to lead you through this incredible year.”

The fountain bubbles softly; nothing else in the ballroom moves. 

Enjolras goes on. “This swim year started so early on an August morning that it was still dark outside, and, in spite of that, all of you attended. Every single one of you showed up like it hadn’t been nine months since we all swam together. I talked that day with each of you, and no one backed down from the challenges that Combeferre, Cosette, Joly, and I had tailored to you.

“In all honesty, that’s all a captain can hope for: an enthusiastic team who trusts that you will do what’s best for them, for the team. If I had simply gotten that out of everyone, I would have considered the season a success. But you gave me so much more.”

Enjolras pauses there and the room hardly breathes - patient, knowing that Enjolras will continue when the moment is right.

(His eye catches Grantaire’s again as he looks out over them all, and Grantaire’s throat feels tight.)

“We’ve set more records, both at professional levels and personal levels, than we have in any previous years,” Enjolras goes on. “Which is incredible and all of us should be so proud of the mountains that we’ve climbed this year. But in addition to our success, our hard work, this team - there has never been a team that has been so close to one another. This team is more than simply a team. I know I have already said this in a more inebriated state, but it is my favorite thing about us, so I will say it again: we are friends, we are family.”

A reverent stillness answers him. His eyes shine with the sincerity behind his words, so clear that there is no other choice but to believe him. But his expression holds, as resolute as he had been standing on the dean’s steps because Enjolras can never say anything without devoting his entire self to it.

And Grantaire can never listen to Enjolras with anything other than his entire self.

“The photographs behind me prove it,” Enjolras says. “We have laughed together as much as we have cried together. We have built each other up to our best selves and have been there when one of us stumbles. We bit off more than we could chew, and then devoured it - we have left our mark on this school, we have made it a fairer place, and we did all of this together.”

His words echo in the silence that follows, the walls repeating them as if to memorize.

Beside him, the photograph of Grantaire and himself in the hamster ball illuminates on screen, lines blurred and noise diluting the colors of that night, but their smiles shine bright through it all.

Grantaire sits there, with Enjolras’ empty chair beside him, and fissures.

“And I know I’m not alone when I say that I feel so lucky to have shared these past four months with you,” Enjolras continues, softer. “What we all share is incredible. Rare. Most people struggle their entire lives to find it, and here I am, fortunate enough to have gone through for years of it. And while my time is up, that doesn’t mean this is over. Next year, you have all chosen Feuilly to take over as captain - ”

Cheers erupt again, ear-splitting and Enjolras joins them this time, leaning away from the microphone to clap.

“You have all chosen Feuilly as your captain for next year, and I have no doubts that he will lead you to your best selves.”

Then, softer yet, and into the microphone, “R.”

Grantaire sits up a little straighter as the attention in the room shifts to him, so great that Grantaire feels it like a temperature change. He manages a little grin as Enjolras eyes him from over the podium.

“Yes, Cap?”

“Will you please bring me your champagne glass?”

Grantaire smiles genuinely and so does Enjolras.

As he slots the stem of his glass between his index and middle fingers, Eponine whistles. Similar noises and calls trail him as he stands and weaves between the tables to the podium. But he doesn’t care, he barely even hears them because Enjolras watches him the entire way, soft and fond and fixed with a look that Grantaire once only thought was possible in his dreams.

He thinks that he’s only there to give Enjolras his glass and then to sit back down, but Enjolras sets his hand on his lower back once he’s close enough, and guides him to his side behind the podium. He pinches the stem of the champagne glass with the other, though not like he wants to take it. His fingers fit themselves around Grantaire’s and they hold it together.

Courfeyrac cat-calls and Grantaire looks out over them all, his team, his friends, and sees them as Enjolras does - attentive, devoted, as bright and as wonderful as Grantaire knows them.

They all lift their glasses as Enjolras guides theirs into a toast.

“To a year so incredible that no word can do it justice,” he says.

“To next year, and the fantastic things that it will bring for us all,” he says.

Grantaire looks at him sideways, close enough to see the smile lines in the corner of his eye, the cracks on his chapped lips, the light stubble sitting just barely there on his jaw. And Enjolras says to the room, finitely:

“To us.”

“To us!” the room echoes and Grantaire has never felt more like he belongs somewhere.

Then Enjolras lowers the glass and Grantaire laughs as he watches Enjolras take his sip, maneuvering around Grantaire’s fingers. The banquet hall comes alive, its heart beating with their loud voices and laughter, breathing with the rustle of their movements and silverware against china. Enjolras finishes with his very quick drink and then steers the flute towards Grantaire’s mouth. He kisses Grantaire’s ear as Grantaire takes his sip and Grantaire nearly chokes.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, though not like he means it or even really knows what he’s saying, with his eyes soft and fixed on Grantaire’s mouth.

“Choking hazard,” Grantaire scolds, swirling what’s left in the glass, mostly for something to do because Enjolras’ fingertips are beneath his jacket now, secretly teasing the hem of his slacks. “And not in a good way.”

Enjolras flushes and presses his smile to Grantaire’s neck; Grantaire knows that both of them have remembered the night before last, when Enjolras’ hand had wandered to Grantaire’s throat. And Grantaire had pooled like ink onto the bed sheets.

He finishes off the champagne and then turns his head to kiss Enjolras’ hair, already curling out of whatever product Enjolras had worked into it. “So, Captain,” he murmurs, “are you sad it’s over?”

Enjolras’ fingertips line up against his spine. “It’s not over,” he says, pleased.

The banquet doesn’t draw to its slow close until 12:30, when, by contract, they have to leave the building. By the time Enjolras leads him by the arm into the snow, Grantaire has had a few more glasses from the champagne fountain - but only because he needed to keep up with Courfeyrac.

(Who, as they all wander through the glass doors, is caught between both Marius and Cosette, holding their hands.)

Grantaire laments about his inappropriate coat the entire way across the parking lot, complaining about how inoffensively informal it is compared to the rest of the effort he had put into himself that night. Enjolras lets him, holding onto Grantaire’s elbow and giving him endeared, sideways glances as Grantaire stares at the coat draped over his arm. 

Finally, when Enjolras stops them, he says, “I like it. It has personality.”

“Of course you do,” Grantaire sighs and lifts his head. “You wear your ties loose and never button your jackets and - this isn’t my car.” He blinks and glances around at the barren parking lot, snow falling into the footprints and tire tracks left behind.

“Nope,” Enjolras says and leans back against the driver’s side door, in no hurry. He takes Grantaire by the hips and pulls him close against him. “It’s mine. Eponine and Combeferre are taking yours home, and I’m taking you back to my place.”

“Mm, good,” Grantaire says and presses his face to the curve of Enjolras’ neck, settling against him. He slips his hands into Enjolras’ coat pockets. His own coat falls to the ground, but it feels so unimportant. “I left my take-out in your fridge the other night. I think alcohol affects me more now.”

He fiddles with the keys in Enjolras’ pocket, thumbs through the coins and gum wrappers. Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire, holding him as he agrees quietly, and they both stand there, content in the quiet night. Once Grantaire noses his way past Enjolras’ skewed and unbuttoned collar, he closes his eyes and settles, breathing in Enjolras’ cologne.

The noise of the hour stays at a distance. Grantaire used to label any hour past midnight as untrue, deceptive, spinning scandals from nothing and good ideas from horrible schemes, but Enjolras has since then shown him the solitude in early morning. Solitude, not loneliness - the minutes made just for them. The moments where the only things in the world are Enjolras’ fingers as they move through his hair. 

Finally, after several slow moments and after Grantaire’s hands have stilled in Enjolras’ pockets, familiar with everything inside them, Enjolras murmurs, “What are you doing over break?”

He feels the words pass through Enjolras’ throat, feels them take shape. “Staying here,” he murmurs. “Holding down the fort, sending Snapchats about Netflix to Eponine as she studies abroad. It’ll be a great time.”

“I’m going to visit my family in France,” Enjolras says quietly. “Do you want to come with me?”

Grantaire lifts his head. Enjolras is the only clear thing in the night, the nearby lamps burning in his hair and his face the center of Grantaire’s intoxicated and infatuated tunnel vision. Concentration lines his brow and his fingers trip over Grantaire’s back, distracted now, watching Grantaire like it’s him that’s the only clear thing around.

“Really?” Grantaire asks, breathless. “Already? It’s only been a month - what if you get sick of me?”

He must be smiling because Enjolras mirrors him. “Paris is a big city,” he murmurs, and Grantaire feels the clouds of his breath on his lips. “We can wander around on our own if we need a break.”

“Money - ”

“My parents will fly us both out.”

“I’m embarrassing - ”

Enjolras’ hands are on Grantaire’s cheeks, cold and bare, thumbs aligned with Grantaire’s jaw. Without meaning to, Grantaire leans into it.

“R,” Enjolras says quietly, firmly. “I like you. A lot. I understand if meeting my family after a month is uncomfortable. I don’t want you to feel pressured to come with me. But if you’d like to, I’d love to share Paris with you.”

An easy breeze passes through Grantaire’s hair and sweeps Grantaire’s imagination from inside him. It goes miles, continents, oceans, weeks away - the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, navigating museum corridors with Enjolras’ hand in his. Architecture, art nouveau, ornate gold frames; crepes folded into disposable papers in the morning, knitted mittens, flushed cheeks as he and Enjolras hold onto their coffee cups and wander through market squares.

And then, a bed, a bed called theirs for a month, where they will collect winter sunlight and trace each other’s sternums in the morning and hide their moans from the paper-thin walls.

Enjolras and himself and another country - new and just for them. 

Enjolras waits patiently for Grantaire to come back to himself.

“Do they have a pool?” Grantaire asks, a slow smile spreading over his mouth.

Enjolras laughs and leans in to kiss the pink on the tip of Grantaire’s nose. “Yes, but it’s outside and Paris is cold in December. I thought you’d like a break from the chlorine.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess the Louvre and Eiffel Tower are exciting enough.”

Enjolras smiles at him, bright. “So you’ll come with me?”

Grantaire chokes a little on the excitement in Enjolras’ expression, the unveiled contentment to be here, in this moment, with only Grantaire. It leaves no room for Grantaire’s doubt to interfere.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, breathless, because it’s the only thing he can say.

Enjolras’ hands still on his cheeks, warming to the flush just under Grantaire’s skin. He loses track of the expression he’s wearing as Enjolras thumbs under his eyes and then pulls him in to kiss him, as slowly as the snow falls. Still, few things in life are easier than kissing Enjolras.

“I will ask you again when you’re sober,” Enjolras murmurs and his teeth brush Grantaire’s lips as he speaks. “And you can obviously change your mind. I got excited - ”

“I won’t change,” Grantaire murmurs, honest. “I won’t change my mind.”

He feels Enjolras’ fingers flex on his cheeks, like he can’t be held tight enough, and they kiss again, Grantaire spilling himself entirely into Enjolras. His hands grow bored in Enjolras’ pockets and he slips them beneath Enjolras’ jacket, over his button-down, which has already come untucked at the sides.

He has been underwater, but even so, he has never felt a softer world standing with Enjolras in an empty parking lot.

“Want to go?” Enjolras finally asks him, as it nears one in the morning. His voice betrays the truth that Grantaire isn’t the only one who’s warm with this, who is distracted by his thigh between Enjolras’.

“Yeah, please,” Grantaire says and slowly retracts himself from Enjolras, piece by piece. Separated from Enjolras, he slowly goes cold, the snow crunching under the soles of his shoes as he goes to the passenger’s side.

The mess has rebuilt itself in Enjolras’ back seat - but now it’s not entirely Enjolras’. As he buckles his seatbelt, Grantaire catches sight of his sweatshirt and his copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream among the piles. 

Enjolras starts the car and the clock tells them that it’s 1:04, an effortless hour without demands or expectations. An hour where they wipe the snow from their hair and then from the windshield, laughing when they dump piles of it onto each other’s shoes. An hour where they’re both entirely human, with matching under-eye bruises and heartbeats that flutter as their fingers lace over the center console.

An hour slower than the rest and made not of minutes, but instead of the stoplights that pass through Enjolras’ hair, the shapes that Grantaire draws in the clouds his breath leaves on the windows.

A pair of his sneakers is waiting for them in Enjolras’ room, where he had forgotten them days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr @ andtheheir

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ andtheheir


End file.
